


A Dream In Time Gone By

by bloodsongs, queasy_mouse



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Child Abuse, Community: paperlegends, Dubious Consent, F/M, Homophobia, M/M, Major Illness, Paperlegends 2013, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsongs/pseuds/bloodsongs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/queasy_mouse/pseuds/queasy_mouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur Pendragon is released from twenty years' hard labour in the salt mines, he must find a way to survive in a world that hates and fears him.  He finds something to live for in an impoverished prostitute called Merlin, and his daughter Gwen.</p><p>Fifteen years later, there's a revolution happening, and Lancelot has to choose between his duty to his friends and the woman he loves.  As the red flags of the revolution fly, the world is poised on the edge of a precipice, and no one is going to escape unscathed.</p><p>With embedded art by the amazing bloodsongs!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. They've All Forgotten You

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank several people - first of all, the amazing blood_songs90 for her gorgeous, gorgeous artwork which you see below. I cannot believe how lucky I was to get one of my favourite artists in the matching, I have spent the last few months literally squeeing!
> 
> Thanks also to my fabulous betas, destiny_chicken and chaz_collin. I really, really couldn't have done it without all their help and encouragement and catching of my ridiculous continuity errors. Any errors left over are entirely my fault.
> 
> Thanks and kudos also go to everyone who ever logged in to Paperlegends Chat, which was an invaluable source of encouragement and weird but wonderful conversations.
> 
> Lastly, but absolutely not least by any stretch of the most fevered imagination, thanks to the_muppet for organising this absolutely amazing fest. I am absolutely in awe of everything you do.

 

 

Bang.

 

Bang.

 

Bang.

 

The rhythm of the pickaxes washed over Arthur as he strained, muscles bulging through his tattered shirt as he reached up once more. His reach was hampered by the shackles around his wrists, but he stretched as far as he could, ignoring the strain as his wrist twisted a little. It was a small pain, compared to the rest of his reality.

Working in the salt mines of Albion had always been an awful way to spend a life, which was why no-one who had any choice in the matter ever did it. The slaves and convicts which the government sent to do the work spent fifteen hour days hacking away at the stones, fed only on meagre gruel made of whatever was left over from the villagers' unwanted scraps. Arthur had once overheard a man say that they bulked out the greyish liquid with sawdust. He wouldn't have been surprised.

 

That man had died, soon after. Arthur couldn't remember what his name had been. He barely remembered his own name, but he was determined. Twenty years in this place could drive a man mad, but he had always been determined. The mines had taken everything from him – his home, his family, his life. But they would not take his mind, not take his identity.  
He was Arthur Pendragon, descended from a line of kings. And if all he had in the world was his name, by God was he going to keep it.

 

Bang.

 

Bang.

 

Bang.

 

He heard footsteps pass behind him and ducked his head, focusing once more upon the clanging of metal against rock. The first rule of the mines: don't look them in the eye. It only served to make the overseers notice you, and the ones who were the most noticed got the most beatings.

 

Unfortunately for him, a youngish looking boy with reddish hair hadn't been privy to that bit of information. Clearly, he was new. Twenty years ago, perhaps even ten, Arthur would have winced in sympathy for him as the whip cracked down across the narrow shoulders and protruding shoulder blades, but how he hardly even registered the noise. Second-hand pain wasn't your pain, which made it none of your business.

 

That was the second rule of the mines: mind your own business.

 

Bang.

 

Bang.

 

Bang.

 

There was a whimper from the red-headed boy. Another crack of the whip and a loud cry of “ _Get on with it!_ ” from the leering overseer was all the sympathy he got. Arthur caught sight of the glisten of tears from the corner of his eye.  
He shook his head. That one wouldn't last long.

 

Most people didn't. They would be here for life and would one day end that life with a pickaxe in hand. The bodies were thrown into communal graves. These graves lay at the edge of the mine. When one was full of bodies, it was covered over with earth and a new one dug next to it. Sometimes it took up to two months to fill a pit – working on the graves was the worst part of an already terrible job. The stench stayed with you for days.

 

It was only a few, the strongest, who made it to parole. Arthur had always been determined that he would be one of those few. Having only been fifteen when he entered the mine, he had a chance at a life afterwards, and was determined that he would take it, no matter what. He kept a tally in his head, trying to count each day. Today was day seven thousand, one hundred and fifty six. No, fifty seven. Arthur wasn't entirely sure. He thought he was within a year of his parole at twenty years, now. But it was hard to be sure, when each day was the same, and each day was hell.

 

Sometimes, he'd seen men give up. They collapsed in the middle of the day, and refused to move, lying still under the rain of lashes until their bodies finally gave out from the pain. Or they would step back onto the tracks just as the cart full of already mined salt came down. It wasn't moving particularly fast, but the cart was heavy, and stopped for nothing. You got used to stepping on bits of bone and flesh, once you'd been in the mines long enough.

 

Once, Arthur remembered, a man had stopped hammering, and just as the overseers had turned to him, had grabbed his pickaxe by the head and thrust it straight through his heart. Arthur didn't think he'd ever be able to forget the expression on that man's face.

 

Bang.

 

Bang.

 

Bang.

 

“ _Prisoner 24601_!” came a call, echoing through the mine.

 

Arthur straightened and turned to see its source. Uther, of course. Though Arthur had tried to keep his head down as much as possible, the guardsman who headed the overseers seemed to have it in for him for some reason.

  
“My name is Arthur,” he said.

 

“24601, push the cart.” Uther's expression of distaste and disapproval did not change.

 

This was the last job of the day. As the other workers filed out of the mine towards their communal cells, or rather, were herded out by the overseers, Arthur walked to the cart. It had been emptied for the last time, and needed to be pushed along the track to the far end of the mine, ready for the morning's work.

 

Just because the cart was empty, did not mean it was light or easy to push. It was made of dark oak, bolted together with huge pieces of cast iron. It stretched nearly as tall as Arthur, and its width was easily twice that.

When full, it took ten men to push it so that it'd have enough acceleration to get to the bottom of the gently sloping hill from the mines to the outside world, all of them straining. Empty, one strong man could just about manage the gradient in the other direction, but it took twice as long.

 

Due to the fact that Uther hated him for reasons unfathomable, Arthur more often than not ended up being the one pushing that cart. He was fairly used to it by now.

 

When he had deposited the cart at the top of the slope and dragged himself back down to the mouth of the salt mine, he was surprised to see Uther himself waiting. Usually, there'd be one of his lackeys there to herd Arthur to his cell, with the assistance of whips and taunts.

 

But today, Uther simply took a piece of yellowed paper from the pocket of his neat, bright blue jacket.

 

“Do you know what this means?” he asked Arthur, pressing the paper into a shackled hand. With trembling fingers, Arthur unfolded it. It had been years since he'd read anything, and the skill had almost left him, but there was only one thing this could be. Parole papers.

 

“Yes,” he said, willing his voice not to shake. “It means I'm free.”

 

“No,” Uther snorted. “It means we're letting you out on sufferance. You will attend every single one of your required parole meetings, you will have your record signed by a magistrate at least once a month, and you will keep your papers on you at all times and show them to anyone who does business with you or asks for them. You will not deface, damage or destroy those papers in any way. If any of these conditions are broken, you'll be back here before you know it, and I'll have you back in your proper place, filthy scum.”

 

“Why do you hate me so? I'm no dangerous criminal.” Arthur figured he might as well ask the question now, as he'd never see the awful bastard again.

 

“Your papers say you are.”

 

“I stole a loaf of bread when my sister's son was starving,” he retorted. He spared a thought for Morgana and Mordred. Where were they now? He hoped they'd managed to escape the awful stigma of the Pendragon name, and its curse.

 

“You broke into a house,” Uther frowned.

 

“I broke a single window.”

 

“That was only your first crime. Then, you tried to escape justice.”

 

Arthur controlled his temper only by keeping his mind on the fact that he would be leaving in just a few hours. One more night, he could do.

“My sister and her son needed me,” he said. “You couldn't possibly understand how difficult it is to get work when you have the name 'Pendragon'.”

 

Uther's expression became absolutely livid at that.

“Of course I know, you stupid man! I was born 'Pendragon', too. But some of us rise above our origins. And do it by _respecting_ the law, not breaking it. I did it, you should have been able to.”

 

Arthur was struck speechless. No wonder the man went only by 'Uther'.

 

Uther seemed to remember where they were.

“Yes, I'm Uther Pendragon. Don't forget my name. Go, now, and if you ever violate your parole, remember, the eyes of the law are watching your every move. I will catch you, and I will find you, and I will bring you back to the justice of the law where you belong.”

 

He took a large black key from his pocket, and undid the shackles. Arthur rubbed his wrists. Twenty years was a long time to be in chains.

 

Uther shoved him.

“Get out of my sight!” Arthur fell to the floor in an ungainly sprawl, uncoordinated after years of restricted movement.

 

Normally, those on parole left at dawn, but, apparently, he'd managed to make Uther angry enough that he was going to be kicked out now, just as the sky turned dark. It made life just that little bit harder. But still, Arthur wasn't going to complain, leaving was leaving, after all.

 

Anything to escape the hell he'd been living.

 

He grabbed his papers from where they'd fallen out of his hand, scrambled to his feet, and began the long trek out of the mine and across the Aescetiran mountains.

 

He didn't allow himself to look back until he reached a safe overhang, a few hours climb from the mines. Night had fallen, and so the only things visible were little spots of light, the torches of the overseers on guard that night. But Arthur didn't need light to see what was there – he'd lived it for long enough. He could never forgive or forget what he had suffered.

 

Arthur turned away to a little brook of water which passed by his shelter, and rinsed his face, drinking deeply as he did so. He was a free man, now. That would be enough.

 


	2. I am Reaching, but I Fall

 

 

 

Arthur found quickly that it wasn't enough, that freedom alone could never be enough. Not when it came at the price of having to display his papers everywhere he tried to work; everyone took one look at the papers and shook their heads, mouths twisting in a moue of distaste.

 

Once, he got away with not showing his papers for a few weeks. The foreman was so overworked and distracted that he wanted any pair of strong arms, and simply waved Arthur in. That was a good time; he had enough to buy food each day, and even some for salted fish which he could save in case of emergency. He hoarded it in a battered satchel which he'd found abandoned on the street – it had probably been stolen and then dropped once relieved of its valuables, he thought, but any port in a storm. He slept under the pier, since he couldn't afford lodging; at least it was warm and summertime, for in the winter he'd have had nowhere at all to go.

 

All too soon his hoarding proved prescient, when the work died down a little, a few weeks after his first day. The ship they'd been working on had gone out to sea, and the foreman finally remembered that he hadn't done a proper check of everyone's papers. As soon as he got around to it, Arthur was out on his ear once more.

 

“Why should I pay you, and deny work to an honest man?” The bitter exclamation followed Arthur, a cloud of shame buzzing over his head like a swarm of bees he could not shake.

 

He resolved to make for the city of Essetir, where he had lived with his family so long ago before his deportation to the salt mines. He had no idea what had become of his twin sister Morgana and her son Mordred, but he hoped they had survived, had found a way to thrive even with the damnation placed upon them by the name of Pendragon.

 

Essetir was further inland than he had ventured, so far, since his release as most of the labouring work to be found was by the sea -- but he wanted to know what had become of his sister as a priority, and perhaps he could get work logging in the forests that surrounded the city.

 

He finally made it to Essetir after three weeks' travel. He had finished the salted fish, and had only made it through to the city by begging on the side of the streets in the little villages he passed. It broke his heart and his spirit to be reduced to it, but the pain curling in his belly was stronger than his shame. A few kind-hearted people shared their bread, but times were hard for everyone. He entered the city of Essetir hungry, tired and cold. The guards gave him sneering looks as he went through the gate.

 

“No beggars after nightfall,” one called after him. Essetir had a policy of clearing the streets overnight. All the big cities in Albion did, it was a large part of King Olaf's policy, meant to ‘increase the safety of citizens’: Arthur thought it was more a measure to maintain his fragile hold on a discontented populace by making sure that malcontents could not secretly meet after nightfall.

 

When the Dubois line had come to power, they'd promised to usher in a new age of enlightenment and wealth, as opposed to the evil and corrupt regime they'd replaced. King Olaf was relying on this mythology to hold on to his ever shakier grasp on power, but Arthur felt that it was wearing thinner by the day. Then again, his surname was Pendragon, so he was probably biased.

 

Arthur wandered the streets of what had used to be his home town. Essetir hadn't changed as much as he'd thought. It still had all the hallmarks of being a big city – smoky streets crowded with carriages, crooked stone buildings leaning precariously over dark alleys, and the all-pervading stench of thousands of people living far closer together than God had intended.

 

The problem with large cities was that many people meant many mouths fighting for work. There were slim pickings from charity, too. Beggars on every street corner fought and competed for the meagre generosity of the few rich people.

 

Arthur paused on a street corner, trying to get his bearings. Yes, the city was basically the same, but twenty years had dulled his memory and his sense of direction. The next thing he knew, a hand shoved him in the small of his back, and he was pushed violently into the street, straight into the path of an oncoming carriage.

 

The horse reared up with a loud neigh. Arthur whirled, and saw nothing but a pair of hooves descending towards his head. He froze, years of survival instincts deserting him as he felt himself certain of his doom. His life flashed before his eyes, although since over half of it involved the salt mines, this was not a particularly gratifying experience.

 

He closed his eyes, finally giving up.

After twenty years of striving to survive, he was to be mowed down by a carriage. Such a minor thing. Ironic, really.

 Twenty long years in the mines, and what had he to show for it?  He was alone, back in the city of his birth on a foolish quest to find his twin sister - after so long, who knew what could have become of her, become of Mordred?  Arthur refused to think the worst, but of course he was a realist - what else could he be, with his personal history?  As the horse's hooves reared up and over his head, Arthur heard the shouting of the carriage driver and the wild neighing of the horse, but they all seemed far away.  What was the point in moving now?  It'd surely be too late to save himself anyway - he'd survived twenty years of Uther, only to be frozen in place by his hunger and lack of hope, here at the end, coming around full circle to the place it had all begun so long ago...

Suddenly, a pair of strong hands grabbed Arthur's right arm and yanked him. He stumbled sideways with a curse, and the air whooshed past as the carriage continued on its way. The driver shook his fist at Arthur as he passed, but to no avail. Arthur was too occupied with the man who had saved him.

 

The strong hands which had grabbed him were made up of long, tapered, pale fingers, which extended into narrow palms, attached to a wiry torso. A long neck stretched upwards to a mop of black hair. The face had the highest cheekbones Arthur had ever seen, and above them a pair of the brightest blue eyes.

 

Arthur realised he'd probably been staring for too long when he noticed that the pair of bright red lips were moving, but he wasn't registering anything being said.

 

“I do beg your pardon, sir?” he said.

 

The man looked askance. “I said, have your wits been addled by the streets? You could have been killed!”

 

“Yes, yes I could,” uttered Arthur placidly. Perhaps his wits _had_ been addled. All he could think of was how much he wanted to kiss those lips. Of course, it was probably inadvisable, since he had no desire to be lynched, arrested or murdered for kissing a man. At least in public.

 

The man was frowning now, lips moving again. “I'm going to go, now, Mr. Strange Prat. You're welcome, by the way. For saving your life, that is. I wish you well in your further business.”

 

He turned and began to walk away, weaving through the crowds on the pavement and making his way towards the end of the road. That snapped Arthur out of his sudden funk.

 

“No, sir, excuse me, please!” The man paused for just long enough for Arthur to reach out to him.

 

“Thank you for saving my life. I am sorry to impose upon you again, but I was wondering if you could direct me to Tintagel Street? I've been away for some years, and am rather disoriented,”

 

The blue-eyed man turned to appraise Arthur. “I'm going towards Tintagel Street now,” he replied slowly. “You are welcome to walk with me if you wish. I somehow feel as though I am meant to help you, though why I couldn't say.”

 

Arthur felt himself truly smiling for the first time in years. “I, too, feel oddly drawn to you, and not just because I'm indebted in that you saved my life.” He paused, glanced around to make sure they weren't being watched too carefully by other passers-by, and then leaned in to whisper in one of the man's delightfully prominent ears. “Besides, it would be difficult not to be drawn to a creature as beautiful as you.”

 

The man coloured, and Arthur worried that he had gone too far (though he thought that the bright sparks of red on top of those protruding cheekbones looked fantastic); the man simply shook his head a little as though to clear it, and mumbled softly, “This way, sir.”

 

After a walk of around ten minutes, the man stopped again. “Tintagel Street is here on the left,” he directed, motioning down the alley. It seemed to have become both smaller and dingier than Arthur remembered from his past. “I hope your business concludes well.”

 

Before Arthur could respond, he turned away. “May I at least know your name, sir?” Arthur called out in vain to the receding back, hardly expecting a response.

 

But he did get one.

With a muttered, “ _Oh, damn it all_ ,” the dark haired man turned on his heel and grabbed Arthur, pushing him into the alley and into the small, dark gap between two buildings. Arthur was far too surprised to resist at all and soon found himself being pressed against the stonework and kissed to within an inch of his life. Once he had regained enough sense to realise this, he eagerly returned the press of lips. Arthur Pendragon had never been one to be shy about what he wanted, and twenty years as a prisoner had not made him inclined to start.

 

Just when things were getting interesting the man pulled back. He smiled the widest smile that Arthur had ever seen, and the ex-con fell in love just a little more at the sheer expression of glee.

 

“Hello,” said the man.

 

“Hello,” mimicked Arthur, dazedly. He'd never believed in love at first sight, but this.

 

“I never believed in love at first sight,” his angel mused, speaking Arthur's thoughts like they were meant to be one, two sides of a coin, perhaps. “But, well,you're quite something.”

 

“You, too.”

 

“What's your name? I feel like I should know, since I can't call you 'beautiful _pr_ at' forever, even in my head.” Arthur felt even more light-headed at the smirk on his beloved's face.

 

“I'm Arthur Pendragon.” He searched for some recoil or sign of recognition at the name, but there was none.

 

“Well, Arthur Pendragon, when you've finished your business, come to me. Number twenty, Ealdor Road. Until then!”

 

With one last peck on the lips, the man turned and began striding away once more. He looked over his shoulder, just as he was about to leave the alley, and winked at the still completely shellshocked Arthur.

 

“By the way,” he added. “My name is Merlin.”

 

Arthur could only stare after him as he strode away.

 

Once he'd lost sight of Merlin's back, Arthur managed to draw himself out of his daze and head down Tintagel Street towards the house he had used to share with Morgana and Mordred. Then, it had been serviceable but shabby.

The three of them had gotten by, just about, on the wages of both himself in the factory and Morgana taking in sewing. Mordred shined shoes on the street for pennies, which helped. When he'd lost his job at the factory, it had all gone to hell, which had ended up with him in the salt mines, and he'd had no word from either his sister or her son since.

 

He knocked on the wooden door, but there was no answer.

 

“Morgana,” he called. “Morgana? Sister?”

 

Nothing.

 

“Hello,” he called louder. “Is anyone there? Mordred? Morgana?”

 

A shutter opened on an upstairs window. “Fuck _off_!” came a shout.

 

Arthur persevered, however. “Morgana Pendragon used to live here, with her son. Do you know what happened to them?”

 

The disembodied voice from the window was scathing. “She did well for herself, didn't she? Go look on Isle Lane, with all the other fucking rich bastards. Now, like I said, _fuck off_.” The window slammed shut.

 

Isle Lane was the richest road in the city. Surely that couldn't be right, Arthur thought, as he made his way towards it. But Isle Lane was the only lead he had.

 

Arthur wandered up and down the wide lane with little idea of where to begin to look for Morgana. How had his twin sister, a Pendragon, born in the poorest part of Essetir, managed to move to this affluent area? Perhaps she had found work as a servant in one of the big houses, he hoped. Though a life of long hours and servitude was not what he'd have wished for her, at least she would have survived.

 

An elegant lady dressed in a deep purple dress with an enormous bustle brushed past him, lost in thought. “Excuse me,” he said, doffing his cap, when - “Morgana?!”

 

“Arthur?”

 

Yes, that was definitely his twin. Arthur recognised the girl he'd grown up with in those cold blue eyes. Morgana had always been a survivor, he realised now. His heart swelled and he reached out to hug her, filled with joy that she was alive and doing so well, his only sister....

 

She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“Arthur! What are you doing here? Go, get away from me before you ruin everything!”

 

“But Morgana – I wanted –”

 

“Look, I've made a life for myself here. I've married well enough that I am safe from the poverty of our childhoods forever more. I can't afford to go back there, but Lot, my husband doesn't know that I was born a Pendragon. I left that name and that life behind when I married fifteen years ago. I can't have a vagrant ex-convict brother.”

 

Arthur's eyes widened at her matter of fact tone. Her icy blue eyes, so different to Merlin's, which had been warm and bright, showed no emotion. “What about Mordred?” he asked. “How is he?”

 

There was a barely perceptible flicker in her face.

“He died. The plague took him two years after your imprisonment. There was no money for a physician.”

 

“No, Morgana, no, that cannot be!”

 

“It was. You weren't there. I did my best. It wasn't enough. But I survived, and I've made a new life for myself, escaped that hell. You won't drag me back there – go, get out of my sight, and never contact me again!”

 

Her increasingly shrill tone had attracted the notice of a policeman.

“Is this vagrant bothering you, Madam?” he questioned obsequiously, raising his truncheon towards Arthur in a menacing manner.

 

“No, officer,” she said. “I was just giving him alms, but he is leaving now.”

 

The officer looked suspicious, but backed away a little.

“Here,” Morgana whispered furiously, pressing a silver coin into Arthur's hand. “Good luck, Arthur. Leave the name of Pendragon behind, it's the only way to survive this world. I hope you do, but I don't really care. We can only ever rely on ourselves, I learned that the hard way. You'll learn too. Now go and don't come back, or I'll set the police on you.”

 

She nodded sharply to him, smiled politely at the officer, and walked into one of the big houses that lined the edge of the road.

 

Arthur watched the woman who had used to be his sister walk out of his life, feeling his heart break for his lost nephew, his sister's lost innocence, and most of all for the world he was living in.

 

 _Mordred, dead!_ Arthur regretted that more than anything. The boy had been only five years old when he'd been arrested. Arthur had first been angry and upset when his sister had had a baby out of wedlock, but after she'd tearfully admitted that she had no idea who the father was, that he had dragged her off the street on her way home and threatened her with a knife, all his anger turned upon the evil bastard who had destroyed his sister's world.

Looking back now, he thought that that had been the end of the smiling, laughing, dancing girl he'd grown up with. The man who raped Morgana had been instrumental in creating the unfeeling, icy woman he'd met today.

 

But hatred of the father had never translated into Arthur's feelings about Mordred, after his birth. From the first time he held his nephew in his hands, Arthur was absolutely smitten. Morgana loved him too, but she seemed unable to totally give herself to her son. Arthur wondered sometimes whether she didn't think she had anything left to give, not after what she valued most, her security, had been ripped mercilessly from her.

 

But Arthur would have done anything for Mordred. He'd survived the salt mines by imagining that his nephew was alive and well, dreaming of reading to him from his favourite, battered copy of _The Little Prince_ and praying to God that his nephew was doing well. Morgana's news felt like it had dragged the ledge he'd been standing on from under his feet, and there was nothing left.

 

Before he could really understand what he was doing, where he was going, Arthur found himself on Ealdor Road. It was a little row of shops, with the upper level hanging over the lower and into the street. The shops were clearly not wealthy, but on the whole they were well maintained and clean, as though the owners had pride in their work.

 

Number twenty, Arthur found after some asking around, was the apothecary. The faded blue sign above the door read _Gaius'_. Wondering if he'd perhaps remembered Merlin's words wrong, Arthur stretched out his arm to open the door and stepped inside.

A little bell rang.

 

The shop was empty apart from a little girl was sitting on the counter, swinging her little legs over the edge and humming to herself. She had dark skin and curly brown hair, and looked to be around three or four years old.

 

“Hello,” she said. “Gaius has gone to the back to finish his potion, he told me to say that he'll be back out in ten minutes, so please wait.” She paused. “Did I get that right? I think I got that right. You're the first person I had to say it to. Who are you? I'm Gwen Emrys. Well, Guinevere really, but everyone calls me Gwen. I like it here. Don't you?”

 

Arthur walked to the counter and held his hand out formally for Gwen to shake.

“Hello, Gwen. My name is Arthur Pendragon. I'm here looking for Merlin, do you know him?”

 

She laughed.

“Of course! Merlin's my daddy. He and Gaius take care of me since Mommy went away to live with the angels.”

 

Arthur raised his eyebrows. Merlin had a daughter? That was... unexpected. Still, she seemed a warm and friendly child, with a precociousness that reminded him of Mordred at the same age. And who was Gaius?

 

Gwen was regarding him, head cocked to one side. “Why do you want to see Merlin? Merlin's not here. He went to get more supplies from the forest. Sometimes he lets me come and pick the flowers too, but today he said I had been -” she paused and frowned, concentrating “in-par-tinn-ent yesterday at dinner so I had to stay in. I wasn't, really, I just said that Gaius was -”

 

Arthur never did find out what Gaius was, because the proprietor himself came bustling out from the back, wiping his hands on an apron. “Gwen dear, has anything – oh, hello. Can I help you, sir?”

 

Before Arthur could manage to open his mouth, Gwen interrupted with, “Gaius! This is Arthur Pendragon, he wants to see Daddy. He's Daddy's new friend.”

 

Gaius' face took on a very familiar expression when he heard the name ‘Pendragon’. Arthur closed his eyes. This was not going to go well.

 

“Ah, Arthur Pendragon, is it? Gwen dear, go out to the back and start setting the table for dinner, won't you? It's just you and me, Merlin won't be back until later.”

 

The little girl frowned. “But I want to stay and talk to Arthur! He's nice, and he has pretty hair!”

 

Arthur muffled a snort. Gaius seemed unamused, however.

“I said go, Guinevere. I don't want to have to ask twice!”

 

She went, stamping her little feet and slamming the door behind the counter as she left.

 

“So.” Gaius surveyed Arthur with one eyebrow raised. Arthur felt as though the old man was looking through him into his soul, and finding it wanting. “You're Arthur Pendragon.”

 

“Yes.” Arthur tried to keep Gaius' gaze, but found himself wavering. The eyebrow was incredibly intimidating.

 

“Arthur Pendragon. Did you used to live on Tintagel Street?”

 

Had he met his man before? Arthur didn't think so, but then he didn't remember much of what had happened before the mines.

“Yes, I did.”

 

“So you were sent to the mines, then. I knew your sister. I tried to nurse Mordred through the sickness, but by the time she came to me he was too far gone.”

 

Arthur's heart clenched. “Thank you for doing your best, sir.”

 

“So you're a criminal, then. You were in the mines.”

 

Arthur could not lie – eventually his papers would prove his deceit. And besides, this man had tried to help Morgana and Mordred – he was owed better.

 

“Yes,” he said. “I served my time. Twenty years.”

 

Gaius nodded, then he sighed, and sat down on the stool behind the counter. “Look,” he said. “I'm going to be blunt. I don't know why you're here, and I don't know what you want with Merlin, but that boy is like a son to me, and I want you nowhere near him, or Gwen.”

Arthur's eyes widened. “I would never hurt-”

 

“Yes, yes you would,” said Gaius matter-of-factly. “Merely by existing. The three of us have done our best, here. I have my little shop, and I make just enough for the three of us, with Merlin's help. When we found a baby in a basket on our doorstep, her name sewed onto the crude blanket she was wrapped in, Merlin took her in, against my better judgement. I love Gwen, but we're only just getting by. The last thing that we need is association with a known criminal, particularly one whose surname is Pendragon. You're going to be bad for business.

 

“If you've just come out from the mines, I'm guessing you're strapped for money, too. I know your sister was, until she married Lot Northman. With those papers and the name ‘Pendragon’, you'll get no work in this town, you're only going to be a burden. If you have any regard for Merlin, leave now, and never return.”

 

If he hadn't already been hardened by twenty years of hell, Arthur might have been angry or upset. Instead, he felt nothing but a vaguely weary resignation. The man was right, after all. He was nothing but a criminal, and never could be other.

What was he doing here, anyway?

 

Chasing a dream, imagining a life, based on nothing but one little kiss? He was a fool. Arthur nodded to Gaius, turned away, and walked out of the shop.

 

He fingered the piece of silver in his pocket that he'd received from Morgana.

 

It was time to get drunk.

 

~~~***~~~

 

The next thing that Arthur knew, he was lying in a bed. He couldn't remember what had happened in the intervening time. He'd been drinking that awful ale in the dive where he'd ended up... and then there'd been more ale... and more... he vaguely remembered being kicked out at closing time.

 

Arthur sat up. He'd been stripped to his underclothes, and the bed was in a small, windowless room. Perhaps a prison cell? There was no decoration on the walls, except for a single cross on the one opposite him.

 

“Oh, you're awake,” came a voice from off to one side. Standing in the doorway was a nun, dressed in a long, grey habit, complete with wimple and triangular hat. That explained the bare walls and the cross, he supposed. It didn't, however, explain what he was doing there and as though she was reading his mind, the nun spoke. “I am Mother Annis, Abbess here, and leader of the Order of the Sacred Sword. We found you passed out in our graveyard this morning. Our order believes in sharing what we have with those in need, so we took you in and cleaned you up a little. You've been asleep all day.

 

Clean clothes for you are on the chair. Dinner will be in around twenty minutes, and you are welcome to join us, brother. We don't have much, but what we have we share.”

 

With that, she left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

 

Arthur looked around the room, slightly stunned. It was bare and empty except for the chair, on which sat a simple shirt and pair of trousers, with shoes on the floor to one side.

 

And then, as he picked up the shirt from the chair, he saw the yellow papers sitting there, mocking him. He opened them again, read the words which had ruined his life again. ARTHUR PENDRAGON – DANGEROUS CRIMINAL, it said. SENTENCED TO TWENTY YEARS HARD LABOUR.

 

The words seemed to flash before his eyes, again and again.

 

DANGEROUS CRIMINAL.

 

CRIMINAL.

 

 _Criminal_.

 

He swore.

The world wanted to make him a criminal? By God, he'd be a criminal, then! He looked wildly around the room – the cross! He looked closer. The figurine was made of real silver, and the wood of the cross itself was gilded with gold leaf.

 

Arthur grabbed the chair, dragged it across the room, and placed it below his prize. Then he stood on it, and reached upwards to grab the cross. Grasping it tightly in one hand, he yanked it, and the slight silver chain which attached it to the wall broke with a click.

 

He shoved the cross up under his shirt, and crossed his right arm over his chest to hold it there. He then pulled open the door to the cell, looked both ways to check the coast was clear, and raced down the hallways until he found a door, leading to the outside world. Heedless of where he was going, Arthur ran out into the street...

 

...and straight into a pair of officers who had been doing their rounds for the evening.

 

“What have we here, then?” said one, grabbing Arthur's arms in a merciless grip and holding them behind his back. The movement dislodged the cross from under his shirt, and it went clattering to the floor.

 

There was a pause, as all three men looked at the figure of Our Lord and Saviour, its filigree sparkling against the dark paving stones.

 

“You're a thief!” accused the officer holding Arthur's arms. He shook them violently.

 

The other had noticed Arthur's papers in his shirt pocket. His heart sank to his boots as the man pulled them out by a corner and unfolded the yellowed pages. “Look!” he said, reading them. “He was sentenced before! I guess his kind don't ever change.” He spat into Arthur's face. “It'll be back to the mines for you.”

 

“No, no, no, sir,” Arthur tried, visions of the mines flashing before his eyes. He couldn't go through that again, he just couldn't. “The Abbess, Mother Annis! She gave me the cross! It was Christian charity, sir! I stole _nothing_!”

 

The officer grinned nastily.

 

“Is that so? Well, in that case, I'm sure you won't mind us popping back into the abbey and asking her about it, will you?”

 

Arthur hung his head, as he was dragged back into the nunnery. His freedom was at an end.

 

He was thrown down onto the hard stone floor of the Abbey's dining area, sprawling at the Abbess' feet.

 

“We discovered this man with a stolen cross,” jeered one officer,handing the item to Mother Annis. “He had the temerity to say you'd given it him!”

 

Annis regarded Arthur at her feet. Her long fingers were wrapped around the cross at its base, and her expression was implacable. Unable to face her unwavering, disappointed gaze, Arthur dropped his eyes to the floor.

 

“Yes, that's right, officers,” said the Abbess. “I gave him this cross."

 

Arthur's head snapped up. He hoped his wide-eyed gaze was not quite as shameful looking as it felt. Mother Annis handed him the cross, and he took it with trembling hands.

 

“But Arthur,” said the Abbess, “you forgot the larger part of your gift!” She stood, walked to the side-table, and picked up the pair of silver candlesticks which stood there. “Would you leave the best behind?”

 

One of the officers coughed, confused. “Madame, if –”

 

“Thank you, officers,” she interrupted. “I commend you for your duty, but no crime has been committed here tonight. Please return to your rounds.”

 

They exchanged glances, obviously suspicious, and left, muttering.

 

Mother Annis knelt by Arthur, handing him the candlesticks.

 

Arthur shook his head, trembling all over. “You – you said – but I – they'd have sent me back there, at a word, but –”

 

“Shh,” she said, running a hand down his back as though she were soothing a skittish horse. “I have bought your soul for God. You must take this chance I have given you, take this silver, and become an honest man.”

 

Arthur stared at her, then stared at the silver in her hands.

 

What had he become? A thief in the night? A dog on the run? He'd always sworn that the one thing they could never take from him was his humanity, his identity – and yet, he'd almost lost it.

The abbess said that he had a soul – how could he possibly know that? And if he had one, what had become of it, how had he fallen so low? What had happened to his pride?

 

Arthur cringed, visibly.

 

“Hush, Arthur Pendragon,” Mother Annis went on. “Think of this as a new life, a new chance, a new beginning. God has raised you from the darkness to the light, my brother.” She held out the silver candlesticks once more.

 

Arthur took them, a single tear running down one cheek. A new start. Another chance.

 

The following week, he left Essetir.

 

On his last night in the city, he took a room in an inn. There was no chance for Arthur Pendragon in this world, not with the history and the stigma attached to his name and his history. He took one last look at the yellowed papers which had been his companion since he left the mines.

 

DANGEROUS CRIMINAL.

 

No.

 

Uther's voice echoed in his head. _“You will not deface, damage or destroy those papers in any way.”_

 

A new life.

 

He tossed the papers into the fire, and watched them burn until they were nothing but ash.

 


	3. So Different from this Hell I'm Living

“Daddy, why do you have to go?” Gwen's tears and plaintive voice broke Merlin's heart for the umpteenth time. Still dressed in his funeral suit, he bent over to pick up his little girl and hold her close for the last time.

“Because, sweetheart, I need to go somewhere I can get money for us. Since Gaius has gone to live with the angels, we can't have the shop any more.” He scowled internally at that – the new owners hadn't even bothered to listen to his proposals for how to keep the shop running, but had instead kicked them out unceremoniously onto the street only days after Gaius' death, having decided to sell the land for a quick influx of cash which would allow them to leave the country. Merlin didn't begrudge them the desire to leave – times were hard in Albion. But they'd ruined his family in their quest.

He'd made the difficult decision to leave Gwen behind at the funeral. Morgause Delamagie and her husband Cenred, who owned the pub at the end of the street, had their own little girl, a quiet, fey-looking creature called Freya. Merlin had asked them to take care of Gwen, and had agreed to send them two shillings a month for her upkeep.

It broke his heart to leave her behind, but the life he'd be living was not one any small girl should be subjected to. There was no work in Essetir, where the crisis had hit harder than almost anywhere else. Merlin would be following the rumours of work in the new industrial town of Mercia. But that would involve travelling across the country until he found a factory or job which might take him on, and probably living on the streets if he could not find places to stay. At least if Gwen stayed with the Delamagies, she'd have a stable home in the city she'd lived in all her life, and even a playmate of her own age in Freya.

But that meant that he had to leave his angel. Gwen might not have been his flesh and blood, but she was all that Merlin had left. With Gaius gone, she was his only family, and the only thing in the world that he loved.

His mind flashed back to that day, five years ago now, when he'd saved the life of a man called Arthur Pendragon. He knew it was ridiculous, to have fallen so quickly for someone, and a man at that! But he'd seen that blond hair, those piercing blue eyes, and been struck by a sudden spike of want stronger than he'd ever felt for anyone.

He'd had dalliances with men before, but they had always been furtive and guilty. After all, society said that the way he felt was wrong.

But when he'd been kissing Arthur, Merlin had felt nothing but rightness. Here, he'd thought, was someone he could spend a life with. He'd thought Arthur had felt the same instant connection, from seeing the look in his eyes.

Apparently not. He'd never contacted Merlin, never come to the shop on Ealdor Street. For a few months, he'd waited excitedly and hoped, but when no word came, he realised it had all been a silly dream of his youth. Why would someone as beautiful as Arthur have noticed him, let alone come back for him? Things like that didn't happen to people like Merlin, a poor boy from the streets whose father hadn't cared enough to stick around and whose mother had died before he could really remember her. He'd had all the luck he was due in his life when Gaius had decided to take him in. Being blessed with Gwen turning up on his doorstep was a bonus, so to expect any more was nothing but a fantasy of an optimistic child.

Never mind. Merlin had grown out of that optimism now. He gave his daughter one last kiss on the cheek, and whispered in her ear. “Now, remember, sweetheart, be good. I'll be back for you as soon as I can.”

She sniffed and wiped away a tear, but then straightened her shoulders and went to stand by Morgause. The blonde woman patted her on the head. “Don't worry, Emrys, we'll look after her.”

There was something forced in her smile, but what choice did Merlin have? He nodded and turned away, hoping against hope that he could get far enough away that they wouldn't see the sobs he could no longer hide.

~~~***~~~

Merlin eventually ended up in the town of Mercia. It had been a fairly small village, but under the auspices of the new mayor, Arthur Dubois, it had become a thriving industrial town with several factories. It was in one of these factories, which made spools of thread, that Merlin found work.

He knew, of course, that his factory was in fact part of Dubois' empire, but he'd never seen the man. He supposed that the mayor was too busy to bother about the lives of the little people who depended upon him. Being a Dubois, he was probably some minor nobility as well, definitely not for the likes of Merlin to know.

That was certainly the way it seemed to Merlin, on the shop floor. None of the higher-ups really seemed to care about what went on. The workers were all rivals, bad tempered after long days. He had made a particular enemy in Cedric, who worked the machine next to him. On his first day, Merlin had accidentally stepped on Cedric's foot as he was trying to get to his place. He'd apologised, but in a fit of some kind of pride, Cedric had demanded that Merlin apologise properly, by licking his boots. Merlin had refused. He didn't have much, but he had his pride.

That refusal had been all it took – Cedric had taken offence at the new boy's supposed insubordination, and had made it his life's mission to make Merlin's existence hell.

“Good morning, queer,” he sneered on this particular morning. It was his usual greeting. Merlin tried never to give any sign that the insults thrown at him - “queer”, “faggot”, “arselicker”; whatever Cedric thought was funny on that particular day - had any effect, let alone that they might be accurate. Instead, he put his hands in his waistcoat pockets, and made his way silently to his machine, head down.

He didn't see the foot out to trip him, but it brought him to his knees. He shook his head and stood up, not noticing the piece of paper drop from his pocket to the floor.

Unfortunately for Merlin, Cedric had noticed. He slipped the paper into his pocket to read later – hopefully, it'd have something he could use against that little upstart, Merlin.

The foreman, Agravaine, was a slimy, hard faced man. Merlin hated him with a passion. He was sure that he'd seen Agravaine surreptitiously staring at the arse of one of the younger and more comely machine workers, and he'd often felt like he was being watched, only to turn around and see the foreman leering. The foreman also seemed to often drop his pen around Merlin and expect him to pick it up. He would brush far too close to him when he was just trying to work, or lean over his shoulder to observe. Merlin tried not to shudder as he felt the man's warmth seep insidiously through his thin shirt. Agravaine had even invited Merlin to stay at his office late one night to 'discuss his prospects', but Merlin had fled, claiming a church meeting. Agravaine's expression had seemed somewhat afraid at that, and the harassment had become slightly less blatant and frequent. After all, homosexuality was technically a sin, even if no one was much bothered about the Church nowadays.

Seeing some slight reprieve, Merlin had made himself out to be a devout Catholic from that point on. He tried not to attract Agravaine's notice, but if it was inescapable, he'd comment something about going to visit his priest for confession and the foreman's eyes would narrow, but he'd keep his distance.

Merlin smiled to himself as he worked, thinking about his latest letter from Gwen. She had written that she was doing well at school, and had made great friends with Freya, and that Morgause and Cenred were kind and even let her help out at the Inn sometimes. Her handwriting was already incredibly grown up!

He patted his pocket for reassurance, but - “Where's my letter?” he muttered.

He looked around – everyone seemed to be minding their own business, working at their machines. The soft hum of industry filled the air.

Even Cedric was crouched over his machine – he was – he was tucking a piece of paper into his pocket, looking up at Merlin with a smirk.

Merlin stood, and strode along the line of machines.

“Give me my letter, Cedric.”

“What letter?” Cedric opened his eyes wide, utterly failing to look innocent.

“You've got my letter, from my daughter. Give. It. To. Me.”

“I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Merlin saw red. He had little enough of his daughter, and some creep was not going to take what little he had from him. He lunged for Cedric, aiming to reach into his inner pocket.

“Hey!” shouted Cedric, loud enough that the other workers looked up from their machines and gathered round. There was a loud buzz of chatter, work for the day clearly forgotten.

Merlin, however, noticed none of this. He was rolling around on the ground with Cedric, trying desperately to get a hold of the letter, but the little bastard was slippery and kept writhing out of his grip, shouting for help. Merlin was entirely focused on that letter, the rest of the world forgotten in a haze of anger and pain and loneliness. He missed his Gwen.

“What the hell is going on here?”

The next Merlin knew, he was being dragged off, held close to someone's chest, hands firmly twisted behind his back. Cedric was opposite, panting theatrically. Merlin was viciously pleased to see that he had a black eye.

“Well? Someone answer me! What the hell is going on?” It was Agravaine who'd spoken. He was standing between them, looking furious. “You disturbed Mayor Dubois in his office with your brawling! He had to send me down to sort you out.”

 _Maybe he wouldn't have had to send you anywhere if you'd been doing your job and been here in the first place,_ thought Merlin, but he said nothing, gaze locked on Cedric.

Cedric, who was putting on his ‘innocent’ face again, though his eyes seemed to be flashing with calculation.  
“It was Merlin, sir! He just jumped on me, attacked me without provocation.”

“It's true,” came a voice from behind him. “I saw Merlin attack him.”

Agravaine looked at him nastily.

“What say you, Merlin?”

“He stole my letter! It was from my daughter, and I have not seen her for a long time, I need that letter!” He lunged forward again, but was held back by the arms holding him.

Cedric was pretending to cringe in fear. “What letter? I haven't got any letter! I don't know what he's talking about.”

“Liar!”

Agravaine looked around the room.

“Has anyone else seen this mysterious letter?”

There was a deathly, echoing silence.

“Right,” mused Agravaine theatrically. “I think I can see what's happening here. It's always the quiet ones, isn't it? Clearly, Merlin, you've been disrupting my workplace and Mr. Dubois for no reason at all, for your own amusement may be. Can't have that. Consider yourself dismissed.”

Shocked, Merlin tried to reach out, but to no avail.

“Mister Agravaine, sir, please, I need this job, my daughter, I need to send her money -”

“Should have thought of that before you started brawling on my assembly line, shouldn't you? Edwin, chuck him out.” As Merlin was manhandled to the door, Agravaine added, almost as an afterthought: “Oh, and don't even think of trying to work in this town again. I'll make sure everyone knows what kind of a character you are.”

With that, Merlin was pushed out the door.

As he lay sprawled on the street, hopes in tatters and with no idea what to do next, the last thing Merlin saw was Cedric's smirking face before the door shut with a bang.


	4. But the Tigers Come at Night

Merlin raised his hands to the passer-by once more. Once this had been shameful, degrading, but now he'd lost all sense of anything but the chink of coins as people threw them.   
Agravaine had been as good as his word, blacklisting him from every job in town that was hiring.

“Alms, alms for the poor?” he asked again, voice cracking. He hadn't had a drink all day. A lady in a long, elegant blue dress passed him with a sneer, but a slightly ragged looking man paused, grinning creepily. 

“Come here, boy,” he said, motioning to the dark alley off to the left. “Walk with me. It'll be good for you, I promise.”

“How much?” the ragged man asked, tracing a thumb across Merlin's mouth, which was chapped and cracked from lack of water.

“How much for what?” Confused, Merlin looked around from side to side.

The thumb was back again. “For your pretty mouth, of course. I'll give you a ten coppers for it, if you'll let me fuck it.”

Instinctively, Merlin backed away. “No, no, I'm not that kind of...”

“No? Really? Just think how much drink you'd be able to get. Or opium, whatever it is that you do... maybe even some food, if you can stay sober that long.”

Merlin thought. But not about drink. Or opium. With ten coppers, he'd be able to send five to Gwen, safe in her cottage with Morgause and Cenred. With one for postage, that'd mean he'd have four left over, which could buy him half a loaf and some stew, enough food for a few days.

But, what he'd have to do to get it, what he'd have to become...

Merlin closed his eyes, and an image of Arthur flashed across his mind, beautiful and blond and strong, and the only person he'd ever met that he'd actually wanted to - 

“Hurry up!” said the greasy haired man. “I haven't got all day, you know.”

But Arthur was gone. Merlin opened his eyes, and reached out for the man's laces, hands not trembling at all. 

For Gwen. He'd do anything for his Gwen.

When it was over, the man wiped his spent dick on the edge of Merlin's tunic and appraised him from above, nasty sneer on his face. 

“That wasn't bad, whore. You do have such a pretty mouth...

“I think I could use you. Come along down to Miskin Street sometime, ask for Kanen. I'll take care of you, and you'll make me lots of money, with that pretty mouth and those big blue eyes of yours.”

He pulled Merlin roughly to his feet, not even trying to pretend that he wasn't using the opportunity to thoroughly grope him in the process.

“Nice enough arse, too,” he said. “You're a virgin, I suppose? Well, you won't be much longer. As I said, ask for Kanen on Miskin Street. It's your decision, but just think of all the drinks, all the opium you'll be able to get.”

He tossed a few coins at Merlin's feet, and then, adjusting his cloak, turned on his heel and left the alley.

Scrabbling at the dirty stones on the floor, Merlin picked up the coins. Ten of them. 

At least this Kanen had kept his word.

And it wasn't like he had any choice. Ten coppers was more than he made in a week, begging on the streets, what with the police moving him on, and the other beggars pushing him along, obsessed with maintaining their territory.

And it had only taken a few minutes. 

He thought of the lecherous hands grasping him, of Kanen's expression of absolute disdain. 

But Gwen... 

Setting his mouth into a resolute line, he collected the coins in his pocket, and made his way towards Miskin Street, pausing only to drop off his money at the courier and buy a loaf of bread on the way.


	5. Waiting in the Dark

Merlin closed his eyes as the nameless, faceless man shoved into him, wincing with every thrust. 

For Gwen, he thought for the umpteenth time. 

For Gwen. 

The image of her smiling face was all that kept him going now, when his whole world had turned to hell around him. He was doing this so his daughter could survive.   
His Gwen. Everything he did was for her. 

She was all he had.

He pushed his hand roughly into one threadbare pocket of his tunic, curling his fist more tightly around the meagre coins which were his only “reward” for degrading himself. With his other arm, he braced himself against the rough bricks of the wall, using the sharp pain as the roughness bruised his palms to ground himself. 

The man behind him was grunting now, muttering random words as he neared his climax. “Ah, yesss – whore – do it – ugh –” Merlin did his best to tune it out, but the large hands were gripping his hips tighter, and then he was aware of something wet and sticky seeping into him. 

The man paused a moment, breathing heavily. Then, he pulled out. Roughly, he grasped Merlin by the hair and twisted him around. “Clean me up.” 

“That's five-pence extra,” Merlin said dully, trying to look as stringent about it as possible from his knees. 

The man, face still obscured by a large black hood, tossed a few coins down. Merlin quickly gathered them and added them to the tiny pile in his pocket. Then, he obediently opened his mouth and allowed the hooded man to use his tongue to clean himself off.

Kanen sidled up to him when it was all over. 

“Alright,” said Merlin tiredly, turning over half his earnings. 

Kanen counted the coins jealously. “You're slowing down, Merlin. Not worth as much as you used to be. Go wash your mouth out and get back out there.”

Too tired to argue, Merlin simply nodded and began to trudge towards the river. It was true, he was slowing. He tried, but somehow he felt less bright, less strong than he had a few short months ago when he'd first come to Miskin Street, the most disreputable of Mercia's red light districts, and where lecherous, perverted old men would come to enjoy boys in the first bloom of youth.

Well, Merlin was no longer in the first bloom of his youth – not that he ever had been, but after a few months working the streets, he certainly didn't look it any more. He took a long, rattling breath – all his breaths seemed shallower these days, and Merlin was fairly sure he wasn't imagining it – and dunked his head under water into the river. He swilled the water around his mouth, trying and failing to wash away the tastes of shit, semen and shame, before spitting it back into the slow running stream. God only knew what was in this water, but he didn't want to drink any more of it than he had to. 

Shaking himself like a dog as he climbed onto the pier from the water, Merlin looked around to make sure that there was no-one around before pulling the small jar of ointment from his threadbare breeches. It was one he'd made himself, thanking a God he wasn't sure he believed in for Gaius' training in herb lore – most whores weren't so lucky. 

The ointment was designed both to keep him slick enough not to tear, and to help heal the internal bruising which was unavoidable in his line of work. Furtively glancing left and right once more, Merlin ducked underneath the pier. He crouched, leaning against one of the pillars that held it up as he slicked his fingers and inserted them into himself, wincing as his stretched and sore hole was once more breached. 

Merlin was just managing to start to stretch himself to the extent where it'd be comfortable for him to carry on with another client when he felt a heavy hand drop down onto his shoulder.

“Oooh, a little whore getting himself all ready for my cock, is it?” A soft, hissing voice came from behind Merlin's left ear. 

He spun, sharply, desperately trying to both push the man away and pull up his lowered breeches. “No, sir, I'm sorry. If you come to Miskin Street later, I'll be happy to accommodate you, but not here, not right now...”

There was a tacit acceptance of the red light district, which included Miskin Street, in Mercia – there'd always be whores, after all, so may as well have them all in one place – but the mayor took a strong exception to anything outside of it which he felt was 'polluting his town'. There were harsh punishments for any whore found plying his or her trade beyond the limits of the red lamps which glowed softly in the evenings.

So Merlin did his best to struggle. 

“No, sir, no. I won't let you. This is illegal. I can't! No!”

The man snorted. 

“You won't let me? Little bitch, that's not how it works. I give you money, I can do whatever I please.”

“No,” exclaimed Merlin. “That's not how it works! Even a lowlife whore like me has some standards, and I'm not sleeping with a bastard like you!”

“Don't worry,” Merlin could hear the leer in the man's voice. “I'm not paying you to sleep.”

He shoved his hand down Merlin's breeches and squeezed his arse. 

With the last vestiges of his strength, Merlin twisted his arm out of the man's grip and punched him, hard in the face. The man reeled back, cupping his nose, eyes wild.

“Why you little -” He lunged forward, punching Merlin hard in the stomach. The sudden pain was immense, like a flash of white hot fire burning through him and Merlin curled up in a little ball on the floor, whimpering.

“What is going on here?” An officer of the guard was holding a lamp, two heavy-set flunkies behind him.

Merlin's assailant stumbled backwards. He swung round, babbling. “Officer, officer! I was just taking a gentle stroll along the pier, and this whore jumped out of nowhere and assaulted me. See, he even broke my nose! I am a respectable merchant, sir, and I did nothing to warrant such an attack!”

The officer, a middle aged man with close-cropped brown hair wearing the bright red jacket of the Royal Guards, turned to Merlin with a look of disgust, holding up his lantern higher. 

“Is this true? You assaulted this man?”

Merlin took a deep breath, trying to fight down the wave of nausea threatening to overtake him. He tried to stand, but the pain was too much, so he just stayed curled on the floor. “N-no, sir, no! This man tried to rape me, I was just trying to defend -”

“Lies!” yelled Merlin's attacker. “Officer, I demand you arrest -”

A quiet voice interceded from off to one side. “Master Jonas, I do not think you should be demanding anything at this point. Look, officer! This man is shaking.”

A blond man had stepped out of a gilded black carriage, parked a few feet away. Merlin had been too preoccupied by his imminent arrest to hear any horses, but since there were now two large white ones a few feet from him, they must have pulled up at some point, he supposed. Pretty horses, he thought hysterically. One of them was grazing its hoof against the cobbles.

The man himself was of medium height, perhaps a few inches shorter than Merlin. He had a crown of blond hair, left slightly longer than was fashionable these days. Merlin couldn't really see his face, hidden in the shadows as it was, but he had a sense that he'd seen the man somewhere before.

“I am the Mayor of this town, and I believe this poor man's tale.”

The merchant bristled, puffing his chest out like an angry bird. “Mayor Dubois, how can -”

“I have heard stories of your conduct, Master Jonas. In fact, I would recommend that you leave now, before I feel the sudden need to repeat them to the good officer here – what did you say your name was, officer?”

There was something about that voice, Merlin was sure. He'd heard it before, somewhere. A long time ago, perhaps. Before Gaius' death? Merlin shivered. His assailant – Jonas, the blond man had called him – was still glaring, and his foot was twitching as though desperate to kick his victim one more time. Blood was dripping menacingly from one nostril.

The officer was answering. He spoke slowly and carefully, enunciating every word as though he were thinking very carefully about something. “I am Uther. Have we met before, Master Mayor?”

“No, I do not believe that we have. I commend you for your duty, however, look at this poor man, here. He has clearly been assaulted, and is lying in pain as we dilly-dally. Master Jonas, are you sure you wish to remain here? I trust that you will not be pressing charges.”

With a sneer, Jonas turned on his heel and left. Merlin spat after him, not even shocked to see the dark spatter of blood. He felt like he was dying, anyway. 

“With Jonas gone, there is no longer a need for your assistance this evening, good officer Uther. I thank you for your time.”

Still looking faintly suspicious in the light of his lantern, the officer saluted and marched away.  
As soon as he was gone - “Merlin!” 

Ah, and now he could place the voice. Of course. Only one person had ever said his name in quite that tone. Arthur Pendragon, who he'd fallen madly in love with one afternoon, but who'd never come back. Could his evening get any worse?

“Merlin, sweetheart, stay with me. What did he do to you – oh, George! Bring me a lantern!”

A man dressed in manservant's livery jumped down from the front of the carriage and hurried forward, carrying a lantern. 

Yes, it was definitely Arthur Pendragon. Though he seemed to have filled out in the intervening time, Merlin could never forget those lips, or the aquiline nose which cast a long shadow in the lamplight. 

He curled away, heedless of the shock of pain the movement sent through his stomach. “Don't mock, Arthur. Don't call me sweetheart. You never came back. I fucking fell – you never came back.”

Arthur's expression would have broken Merlin's heart, if he'd had any heart left to break. 

“I did – I went to the shop that afternoon – I met Gwen, your daughter, she's lovely – but Gaius sent me away, he said you'd be better off without me – oh God, what have I done? Merlin, Merlin, I –”

Merlin laughed and laughed, wincing with every breath as the pain it caused lanced through him.  
Of course Gaius would have done that, he'd always been a stickler for propriety. Of course, that explained why Gwen had asked for months about whether he had any new friends, but Gaius had always shushed her. And he'd laboured, heartbroken, for five years.

Mentally, he cursed Gaius' memory with every fibre of his being, even as he broke down into tears at what he had become, what his life had become. When did he go from Merlin, the apothecary, to Merlin, the whore, nearly raped by a stranger on the pier?

The next he knew, strong arms were lifting him, and a voice was softly shushing him. He felt himself be placed on a soft carriage seat, and then they were moving. There were hands in his hair, softly stroking through it as he sobbed.


	6. This Man Could Be My Chance

Merlin tossed and turned for weeks. Arthur hated seeing him like this – so pale, his already prominent cheekbones sticking out even more than he remembered, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. He had taken Merlin back to his own townhouse, and set him up in the guest bedroom. 

The housekeeper had looked at him askance, but, used to his peculiarities by this point, she'd refrained from commenting. 

The sideways looks had only increased, however, when Arthur had proceeded to spend the next week by his patient's bedside, sleeping on a chaise longue which he'd ordered brought up from one of the reception rooms. 

Arthur, however, was resolute.

He'd just found his Merlin, the only person he'd ever wanted for himself, and if he wanted to keep vigil by his love's bedside, he damn well would. He begrudged every second he was forced to spend out of Merlin's company, fulfilling his duties as Mayor and owner of several factories. He'd done rather well for himself from those two silver candlesticks, considering. 

While keeping that vigil, feeding Merlin with chicken broth poured teaspoons at a time down his throat, Arthur had a lot of time to think.

He felt somehow that he'd always been destined to do this. 

After all, God had saved his soul through Mother Annis for a reason – she had all but told him so. And now, he'd once again found his Merlin, the man who'd kissed him so many years ago, awakening feelings that Arthur had never thought he'd have. 

And now, like an angel, Merlin had fallen into his lap – what were the odds that he'd run into the same man twice, despite having changed his name and moved across the country? Those odds were so small as to be discounted. 

It must be fate – destiny – whatever he wanted to call it, Arthur was more certain than this one thing than he'd ever been of anything in his life: Merlin was his. And even the tenets of a God who had saved his life couldn't tell him otherwise. 

Perhaps the Church had misinterpreted something, somewhere along the line.

In the end though, it was all worth the sidelong looks in the world, when, one sunny summer's morning at around eleven o'clock, Merlin's eyelids fluttered, and his hand twitched. Arthur was out of his seat in an instant, clutching that hand with every fibre of his being.

“Merlin?” he asked.

“Arthur? What's going on? Where am I? Gwen?” his voice was raspy with disuse.

“You're in my home. Don't worry about anything. I'm going to take care of you, now. You, and Gwen.”

“What? But you – you left. You can't be real. Am I dead? Is this heaven?”

Arthur closed his eyes, shaking his head. “No, no, darling. You're mine, now. And I'm going to take care of you.”

Merlin whimpered, closing his eyes. “I'm so cold. So tired.”

“I'll build up the fire.” He hurried across the room. By the time he'd returned, Merlin was fast asleep.

It took several of these half-conversations before Merlin truly came back to life in the way that Arthur wanted him to. 

At first, he never remembered the previous conversation, each time asking where he was, asking after Gwen, and claiming Arthur couldn't be real.

“You're a prat,” he said once. “You left me, and now I'm dead, and even the bloody angels take your face because of course there's none more beautiful to be found.”

Another time: “This is bed. This is heaven. Far too comfortable to be anything but bed. Heaven. Thing. Bed.” Arthur didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Sometimes, Merlin was angry. 

“Where were you? Why weren't you there? What gives you – gives you the right to be here now? Why are you trying to save me?” 

Arthur never knew what to say on those occasions. 

He could only hold Merlin's hand tight and repeat the words in his heart, over and over and over again: “Merlin, Merlin. I failed you before, I let you go. It won't happen again, ever. I'm here.”

Gradually, Merlin became more and more lucid. He seemed to be becoming stronger, too. There came a day when Arthur entered the room to find him sitting up in bed, seemingly struggling to twist his legs to get up.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Arthur said, rushing towards him to help hold Merlin up when he stumbled and nearly fell forwards. “What on earth do you think you're doing?”

“Getting up, getting back to work, of course,” said Merlin, voice shaking a little. “I have a daughter, she's depending on me. Morgause needs the money to take care of her – Arthur, I don't know what she'll do if I haven't got it! I need to get out on the streets, get some customers, make enough – Arthur, I have to go.”

Arthur's eyes widened. “No, no, no, you're not going anywhere, Merlin. You're in no condition to be moving, let alone for be trying to find punters!”

Merlin's eyes rolled back into his head with the need to rise. “I need that money, Arthur! My Gwen needs the money!”

“I'll send her the damn money! Tell me where I need to send it, where is Gwen? I'll send the money for her upkeep, then, when you're well enough, we'll travel and pick her up so we can take care of her. Forever.”

Merlin's eyes were wide and round. “W-why would you do that? I'm not that expensive a whore.”

“You're no fucking whore at all! Merlin, I don't know what happened five years ago when I met you on that street, and you kissed me in that alley. But I do know this: somehow, in the space of half an hour you captured my heart, and the only thing I can think of is how much I love you. It's all I've been able to think of for the last five years. I love you. And Merlin, I want to take care of you, and I don't want you having any more punters because you're mine, Merlin. Mine.”

“Oh fuck,” Merlin retorted, allowing himself to fall backwards onto the bed. “Five years of pining, and now that I'm dying I find out that it wasn't as unrequited as I always thought.”

Arthur's gaze hardened. 

“You're not dying, Merlin. You're going to be fine. We're going to be fine. We're going to be bloody brilliant.” He ran a hand through Merlin's sweaty hair. “You hear me? Bloody brilliant.”

~~~***~~~

Slowly, slowly, Merlin became stronger. 

By two months after that night on the pier, Arthur was arguing with him over points of his mayoral policy. He'd gotten into the habit of coming home each day and telling Merlin all about what had happened to him. 

“Of course you should redirect the money away from the guilds and directly to the craftsmen,” Merlin was saying, gesticulating wildly. “It was a guildmeister who pushed me out of Gaius' shop – he refused to sublet to someone who wasn't part of the club, and instead of making an investment in me he decided to sell up for ready money. If I'd had the chance to talk to him directly – but I wasn't a member of the guild, so I couldn't even submit an application.” He looked away from Arthur, eyes downcast. “I really liked that shop. I think I'd have been a good apothecary.”

Arthur fought the urge to reach out and ruffle his hair. “I think you would too. You still can, if you like. I've got lots of money and no one to spend it on but you and Gwen – I'll buy you an apothecary if you like, and you can spend all day making poultices. Or, I'll just lavish you with silks and gifts, and you'll never have to work a day in your life again.”

He was taken aback when suddenly Merlin reached up out of the bed, and in one sinuous movement kissed him. His mouth was exactly as Arthur remembered it; hot and wet and perfect, and everything he'd ever wanted in a person. Feeling other parts of his body take interest, with a rueful sigh and a frankly ridiculous amount of self control, Arthur pulled himself back. 

“No,” he said. 

Merlin looked back, confused. “But why? I know that you love me, you keep saying so. And I can see that you want me.” He palmed Arthur's breeches as if to prove it.

“Of course I want you, Merlin! You're the most gorgeous thing on God's green earth, and I feel like you've been set here just for me. You're smart and handsome and perfect in every way. But I don't want you to just give yourself to me out of a mistaken sense of gratitude, because I'm taking care of you and Gwen. I'd do that whether or not we're sleeping together, I hope you know that. I'm willing to wait for you Merlin, for as long as it takes.”

Merlin struggled backwards on the bed, leaning against the whitewashed wall. “You know, I think I actually believe you.”

Arthur straightened, leaning back and trying to straighten his clothes without drawing too much attention to the bulge in his breeches. “All right then, I'll just -”

“And,” Merlin said, grabbing him by the lapel and dragging him forwards. “Because I believe you would wait if I asked, that's exactly why I want to to do this.”

He leaned forward, and before Arthur could gather his thoughts, that perfect mouth was on his again. Merlin leaned back just enough to say - “Oh, and by the way, you idiot, I love you too.”

Then they proceeded with the far more important job of kissing.

~~~***~~~

As the summer began to fade into autumn, Merlin became restless. He seemed to have mostly recovered from his illness, and the doctors had told Arthur that it'd simply been a bout of influenza – a particularly nasty bout, but nothing to worry about at all. 

“Arthur,” Merlin chirped one day, as they lay in bed together. “I'd like to go and get Gwen.”

His lover nodded. “Of course. I didn't want to suggest it until you felt strong enough to travel, but...” 

“I think,” Merlin replied, silkily, running one hand along his collarbone, “I have sufficiently proved in the last half hour that fatigue is no longer an issue.”

Arthur laughed, heart spilling over. “Indeed not! Give me a week, just to make arrangements with my men to take care of the town while we're gone, then we can travel together to Essetir and collect Gwen. Together. Is that alright?”

Merlin smiled. “It sounds perfect.”

~~~***~~~

Arthur was just wrapping up in his mayoral office at the end of the week, filling the last of the papers required before he left on his month's leave of absence. 

“Come in,” he called, as a sharp knock at the door interrupted him.

He turned, fighting to keep his expression blank at the sight of Uther. 

“Officer Uther, is there something I can do for you?”

“I have come to inform you of my resignation from the officer corps. I have committed an offence against your person and I feel that my honour can only be satisfied by accepting a demotion to infantry status.”

Arthur stiffened. 

“I know of no offence you have committed.”

“I reported you to the authorities, believing you to be a convict, released on parole several years ago. He skipped parole in Essetir, and something of your manner reminded me of him that night by the pier when that whore was attacked.”

Arthur fought to not snarl at the careless mention of Merlin, waiting instead to see where Uther was going with this tale.

“However, I have recently been informed that the convict was apprehended last week in Ostia, and is due to be hanged three days hence. I was clearly misguided in my accusation of you, and I shall resign my commission immediately in penance at my error.”

“N-no resignation will be necessary, sir,” Arthur uttered, heart racing and blood seeming to rush to his head. “You were only doing what you believed to be right, after all. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must leave – I am, after all, about to take leave of the city for a while. I thank you for your honesty.”

Arthur bowed slightly and rushed out of the room. 

Ohgodohgodohgod. A man was there, in his place! This was his chance for freedom, for true legitimacy. Why should he interfere with this? Another man would hang, and Arthur would be free.

Another man would hang.

As he sat in the carriage, Arthur's mind was a whirl of indecision. Another man would die – die for his crimes. But why should he intervene? Arthur had hundreds of workers relying on his factories for their daily bread: what would happen to them if he were arrested?   
What would happen to Merlin and Gwen? He'd done his time – twenty years! Twenty years for stealing a loaf of bread for his sister's starving son – and Mordred had gone on to die anyway – so what had it all been for? Hadn't he done his penance? Hadn't he served his time? 

Why must he do this?

But then, Mother Annis had claimed his soul, said he had a soul, and he had sworn to become a new man and to use the chance he had been given for good. Allowing a man to die in his place was wrong, however he looked at it.   
Arthur had a duty.

Merlin was coughing into a handkerchief as Arthur entered, but he stuffed it into his pocket as soon as he saw his lover's ashen expression. 

“What's wrong?”

Arthur closed his eyes in submission, then opened them once more to look the man he loved in the eye. “There's something we must discuss before we leave.”

He took Merlin by the arm and guided him into the parlour, shutting the door behind him, heedless of the servants' curious looks.   
“You remember that I explained to you why Gaius was so against having me be part of your life? Well...”

“Well,” sighed Merlin when Arthur finally reached the end of his tale. He looked at Arthur straight in the eye. “You know that I favour survival above all else, Arthur, so I believe that you know what I want to say.”

“You would have me leave it,” said Arthur. “You would want me to leave that other man to die in order to protect myself.”

“Yes,” Merlin stated. “Because you are the most precious thing on Earth to me, and I,” he raised his eyes to the heavens. “I would do anything not to lose you, Arthur.” He cleared his throat, and coughed a little, as though trying to clear not only his throat but also his conscience.

Arthur closed his eyes once more. “Merlin...”

He felt a finger touch his lips, and opened his eyes in surprise. “Allow me to finish, you dear foolish prat.” Merlin's eyes were wet. “I am also fully aware that you would not be the man I fell in love with, were you not also a knight in shining armour with the last remaining sense of chivalry in Albion. That's why you are going to go now and sign over your factories to Leon, who you know will take care of them. Then, we shall detour at Ostia on the way to collect Gwen, and once you have saved the convict in your place, you and I shall run, fetch my daughter and run, run beyond the boundaries of the world, to a place where we can be together and free.”

Arthur felt tears welling in his own eyes. 

“I could transfer the companies to you, instead. That way you and Gwen can live here in peace, rather than as parole-breakers and criminals for all your lives.”

Merlin smiled. “Who would allow a whore to run a major business? Certainly no one in this town: I know, I've slept with most of them. I'd be out within a week.” He laughed a little at Arthur's possessive growl. “Besides, my place is with you, and always with you, until the day I die.”

~~~***~~~

It was the expression on Merlin's face right then that Arthur remembered when he strode into the courtroom in Ostia. 

Leaving Merlin asleep in their bed, as he'd been somewhat fatigued from a slight cold and the long journey, he'd dressed in his most unobtrusive clothes but flung a bright coat and hat over them, in the hopes that they'd draw the eye of his pursuers, for pursued he'd most certainly be. 

It was almost worth destroying everything he'd worked for, for five long years, at the expression on Uther's face when he spoke. 

“This man chained before you is innocent. I am Arthur Pendragon, Prisoner 24601, and I absconded my parole on the seventeenth of April five years ago. Let him go, the one you want is me!”

Leaving a dumbfounded court behind, Arthur turned on his heel and strode out.


	7. Please Stay 'Til I am Sleeping

Arthur burst into the room with a grin on his face. 

 

“Merlin, Merlin, I did it! I told them all! I told them, and now there's a weight off my heart, are you ready? Let's run, run where they'll never find-” 

 

He stopped short. 

 

Merlin, rather than greeting him with the wide, happy grin he'd become used to over the past few months, was curled up at the head of the bed, skin paler than the sheets he lay on, but with the same slightly greyish tinge. 

 

His red lips seemed even darker than usual with the contrast, but they were pursed and tight with pain. Arthur goggled at the sudden change from the vibrant, bright eyed man he'd shared the bed with the night before. 

 

What could have caused such a sudden change? 

 

Merlin had been getting better – had been healthy again! The physicians had said it was just a simple bout of influenza – surely, they couldn't have been wrong? With a sick feeling in his stomach, Arthur suddenly remembered the mulish expression on the face of an apprentice who'd dared to pipe up, speaking of how some diseases would hide, fool the world that they were gone, but then return worse than ever – the Master Physician had shot down the idea, glaring at the apprentice and declaring him incompetent, a novice, and Merlin had seemed so healthy that Arthur had dismissed it from his mind. 

 

He regretted that bitterly now. 

 

He felt sick himself when he recalled that Merlin had been coughing the other day, before they left home for Ostia. 

 

Had there been other signs he had missed?

 

Upon hearing Arthur's entrance, Merlin rolled over to face the door, and made a pitiful effort to rouse himself. But even as he put out an arm to steady himself, he seemed to lose his strength and he flopped backwards onto the pillows with a small sigh. 

 

Before he could take a breath, Arthur found himself across the room, one arm around the man he loved, shushing him gently.

 

“I'm – sorry,” said Merlin, breaths laboured. “I don't – think I can – run anywhere – anymore – sorry.” He took in a gasp of air, the rattling sound of which hurt Arthur's heart. 

 

Gently, he lifted up Merlin and rearranged them so that Arthur was sitting with his back to the wall, Merlin between his legs with his head lolling back on his lover's shoulder. 

 

“Hush, now,” he whispered, feeling tears scratch his throat. “I'll take care of you. We can run 

another day.”

 

Merlin took another one of those rattling breaths. “I don't think – I can't – there's no more running – for me – anymore.”

 

Arthur couldn't hold the tears back from falling. “No, _no_. You're going to be fine, Merlin. We've gotten through this before, don't leave me now. _Don't leave me._ You're all I have – we're going to go and get Gwen, remember that? Think of her!” He felt his voice breaking down into sobs, each word less intelligible than the last. “We'll find her and we'll – we'll be a proper family. Forever. And we'll run until they never, ever find us. _Don't leave me, Merlin._ ”

 

“Oh, Arthur.” Merlin coughed into his handkerchief. Arthur was appalled to see speckles of dark red marring the fabric. “Take – take care of Gwen – for me.” 

 

“I will,” Arthur said, wiping his eyes. “I swear on my life that no harm will come to her while I am living.”

 

“Take care of her, Arthur. Make sure – I don't trust Morgause. I had no choice, but – take her away.”

 

“I will love her as my own, for the love of you. I'll take care of her, Merlin, I promise.” Arthur clutched Merlin tighter to his chest, as though able to give him life just through sheer force of will.

 

Then, he panicked a little, and loosened his hold a little. “Am I squeezing you too tight? What can I do? Should I light the fire? Call the servants?”

 

Merlin reached one pale hand up to curl around Arthur's jaw, fingers brushing away the tears from around his eyes. “Just – just hold me.”

 

“I can do that,”Arthur promised. Merlin's hand dropped back to the covers as though it'd taken all his strength to keep it held up for so long. Arthur encircled it in his own, lifting their joined hands to hold in place over Merlin's heart.

 

“Love you.”

 

They sat like that for a while.

 

“'M so cold,” Merlin muttered, shivering.

 

“I'll keep you warm.” Arthur stroked his free hand through Merlin's hair.

 

“You always do.” Merlin breathed out – one, final rattling breath. 

 

And then there was silence.

 

~~~***~~~

 

Arthur wasn't sure how long he sat there, holding Merlin in his arms. When the servants knocked at the door, asking whether he was ready to go or if they should send away the carriage, he shouted at them, angrily, to go away. He probably sounded rude, probably should have tried to be kinder, but he didn't care. 

 

He just didn't care. 

 

When the door began to open once more, it was with a cold, biting anger that he he yelled. “Fuck off!”

 

The door swung open anyway, and, of course, _of course_ , because the universe hated him and couldn't even leave him time to grieve his lost love, it was Uther standing there. 

 

He took in the tableau before him with those thin lips twisted into a moue of distaste, and it was that, that expression of absolute disdain, that made Arthur lose the last shred of his control.

 

Despite the white hot anger burning through him, he was careful as he moved Merlin's limp corpse from his lap. 

 

He manoeuvred himself out of the bed, then set out Merlin's body so that his head was on the pillow, his arms crossed across his chest. Uther had watched this all impassively, but as he leaned down to press one final kiss to that cold forehead - 

 

“Arthur Pendragon, you are under arrest for breaking your parole.”

 

Deliberately, Arthur finished his movement, saying his last goodbye. Then, he straightened slowly. 

With his back to Uther, his voice cold, he replied:

 

“The man I love has just died, Uther. Have you no respect?”

 

Ordinarily, admitting to sodomy would have been a death sentence in itself, but Arthur already had one waiting for him, so what was the point in lying any more? Besides, he was _just so angry._

 

He turned, and the cold fire in his eyes made even Uther wince slightly, though years of training and a naturally unfeeling disposition meant he didn't actually take a step backwards. He looked like he wanted to though.

 

Instead, Uther took in a deep breath, straightening. “At last, Master Mayor, we see each other clear. I'll have you wearing a different chain now, the one you deserve.”

 

“No,” said Arthur flatly. “There is a child, a child that needs me. I've paid my dues for the crime I committed: the only thing that I am wanted for now is for trying to put it behind me and make a new life. So I am going to go and care for the girl who may as well be my daughter, because I loved her father and I will love her as my own. Move out of the way and let me go.”

 

“ _Love_?” Uther spat. “What can you know of _love_? You're a criminal and a sodomite, you can't possibly know love. People like you never change. I suppose your father abandoned you, is that your sob story? Well, I suppose he was just a criminal, bastard waste of space, just like you.”

 

That particular barb had ceased to hurt Arthur long ago: he'd survived twenty years in the mines with Uther after all. 

 

“I never knew my father, and my mother died when I was ten, her heart broken by the man who never came back. Uther, I don't care what you think of me, I have a little girl to take care of.” He stepped forward, going as if to make for the door.

 

“No,” shouted Uther. “You're coming to face justice.” He raised his sword, but Arthur was faster. 

Uther hadn't noticed that the step forward had placed his left foot just by the side of his sword handle, which had been abandoned on the floor when he rushed to the side of his dying lover.

 

With one flick of his foot, the sword was arching into the air, and Arthur caught it in his hand, bringing it down immediately to parry Uther's thrust. The officer's eyes widened in surprise. But Arthur had grown up on the streets of Essetir: if there was one thing he knew, it was how to fight. Angrily, Arthur pressed his advantage forwards. 

 

Uther was caught on the back foot, unprepared for the ferocity of the onslaught. He blocked every strike, just, but Arthur wasn't aiming to hurt him, just to move them round just so – ah.

 

He found his back to the door, scrabbling backwards with his fingers to find the handle, even as Uther pressed forward, thinking he had an advantage. 

 

In one movement, Arthur swung the door open, and stepped smartly to one side. Uther, pressing forward, fell headlong through the sudden space, and Arthur took the opportunity to club him over the head with the hilt of his sword. 

 

“Sorry,” he said to the crumpled body on the floor. “But there's a child who needs me.”

 

With that, he ran along the corridor and out of the inn, before climbing on to his already saddled horse and setting off at a gallop towards Essetir.


	8. I Know a Place Where No One's Lost

“Are you done yet, you lazy little cow?” The shout echoed around the draughty, empty tavern.

Hurriedly, Gwen put the mop back in the bucket, wincing as the dirty, scummy water washed over the sides and across the same patch of floor that she'd just been idly sweeping the mop across. Perhaps Morgause hadn't noticed her daydreaming. She always said that little girls should be seen and not heard, but even when Gwen was quiet, if she wasn't quietly doing chores she got in trouble.

Gwen didn't like getting in trouble. Morgause smacked her when she was in trouble, right on the back of her legs where it really stung. 

But at least Morgause used her hand. It could be a lot worse, Gwen knew. 

Once, she had tried to run away from Morgause and Cenred, to find Daddy. He didn't know she was coming, because Morgause stood over her and made her write letters saying that everything was all right. He might be cross with her when she turned up unannounced, but anything, she decided, had to be better than sleeping on the cold tavern floor, being woken by a whack from a broom, and eating whatever disgusting leftovers the men who came to drink had left behind the night before. 

At least when Daddy was around, he made sure that they shared whatever blankets and food they had, even if that wasn't much. 

Now, Gwen was forced to watch as Morgause and Cenred gave their ‘real daughter’, Freya, the best and choicest morsels, while she was forced to scavenge what she could when she washed the dishes.

Gwen's one escape attempt had not got very far. She'd made it halfway through the woods which curled around the back of the inn like smoke curled around the pipe of Old Man Anhora, who sat in a corner every night and always smelled strange and looked at Gwen in a way that made her want to go and have a wash, even if she did have to use the cold trough in the stables.

Cenred, stirred out of his usual indolence by Morgause's yelling, had caught up with her then, and literally dragged her back by her hair. 

She could still remember the horrible shock when he'd accidentally pulled a whole clump out (he said it was an accident at least, swearing and cursing at her for not moving fast enough). It had looked so forlorn there on the ground, a black clump streaked with dark red, which she assumed must be her blood. Gwen felt far too light-headed to be sad about it though, the pain where her hair had used to be stinging through her brain.

That pain was soon overcome though. Cenred took off his belt, and soon she had a far bigger pain to worry about. By the fourth stroke, she didn't have the energy left to scream. Gwen tried to think of her happy place, the place where her Daddy played with her all day and made her toys like he used to, and Gaius was there and everyone was happy and there was absolutely no crying, ever. 

After that, Gwen decided that doing exactly what Morgause said without complaint was the best way to go.

So today, when she heard the shout, she cursed herself for daydreaming again. It was just so nice when she could go to her happy place, her castle! But it was more important to make sure that the mopping was done by the time Morgause got up. 

She always got up late, nearly at dusk. She said it was because she had to be up so late, because the tavern didn't close til sun up. But Gwen had to stay awake all night, too, because someone had to carry the drinks from the bar to the customers with a tab. It was all right though. It could be worse. Gwen had her happy place to go to when she got too tired or when Morgause got angry.

As long as Gwen had cleaned up the whole inn by the time Morgause woke up, she would be safe. Morgause didn't really notice her unless something was out of place. She was too busy dressing Freya up in pretty little dresses. 

As Gwen was finally finishing mopping up, the girl herself came down the stairs. Today, Freya was wearing a new dress. It was the colour of bluebells and had lace all around the sides and the sleeves.

“Look at my new dress!” she exclaimed to Gwen. “Doesn't it look lovely? It's so much nicer than that ragged old cap and gown you're wearing. Mummy says caps are only for servants and lower class people.”

Gwen tried to look unaffected. “It's a very nice dress. 'Scuse me, some of us have to work, we don't all have Mummies to treat us like spoiled brats by buying a new dress every week!”

She knew she'd gone too far when Freya's eyes filled with tears. 

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean that,” she started to say. “I'm just so tired, and I miss my Daddy, and -”

But it was too late. 

“Freya darling!” Morgause was there in an instant, almost trampling Gwen in her haste to enfold her daughter in her arms. “What did the nasty little creature say to you?”

“She called me brat,” Freya sniffled pitifully. Gwen tried not to glare at her. Daddy always said you should try to be nice to everyone, but Freya made it so difficult sometimes.

Morgause rounded on her, dark eyes flashing. 

“I think we're nearly out of fresh water this evening,” she snapped unkindly. “Go get some more from the well, Gwen. And be quick about it!”

Gwen felt her heart sink. She hated going to get the water, and Morgause knew it. It was always really dark in the woods at this time, and the well was very creepy. 

Freya once told her it was haunted by a ghost, and even though Gwen knew that was silly, it was sometimes hard to remember that when you were engulfed by shadows twice your size. 

Besides, the bucket full of water was really, really heavy for her eight year old arms on the way back.

“Hurry up, girl,” Morgause sneered. Gwen turned away from Freya's huge, blinking dark eyes, which were gazing at her from under her mother's arm.

She knew that whatever horrors were waiting in the woods, anything had to be better than getting Morgause in a temper. That would lead to more work, and then maybe to Cenred getting involved. Avoiding Cenred was the main goal of her existence. So she swallowed her sigh and, trying to look as uncaring as possible, began the long walk to the well, which was at the far side of the wood.

She decided to hum to herself as she walked to the well. Maybe that would keep the nasty ghost away. Not that there was one, of course.

~~~***~~~

Gwen was bent over the well, winding the handle to pull the full bucket back up. This was always the hardest bit, and she was concentrating very very hard when - 

“Excuse me, Miss?”

Losing concentration, Gwen accidentally let go of the handle as she turned to see who had interrupted her in the forest, praying it wasn't the ghost. The bucket on the chain clattered down back into the water.

SPLASH!

Gwen winced, as all her hard work was wasted. Now she'd have to start again, and then she'd be late and Morgause would be angry.

On the bright side: it wasn't a ghost that had caused the interruption. 

Standing before her, rather than the scary woman in white she'd been expecting, there was a big man wearing riding leathers. He had fair hair, and a sword strapped to his waist. He looked like a Prince from one of the stories Daddy used to tell her before he went away.

Knowing her place, Gwen curtsied. 

“Yes, sir?” she said, trying to look grown up.

The man was silent for a long time. 

Gwen tried again; maybe he was a little bit deaf. 

“Can I help you, sir?” she asked, slightly louder.

Finally, Blond Man found his voice. “...Gwen?” he asked, seeming to disbelieve his own eyes.

“That's me, I'm Guinevere, called Gwen,” she said. “Who are you?”

Blond Man kneeled on the floor so he was at about the same height as her. 

“I'm Arthur,” he said. “We've met once before, do you remember? I'm a friend of your father's. I came to the shop.”

Gwen racked her brain. “I don't really remember,” she answered. But she did, a little. Something about Arthur made her feel safe. And she did remember that Daddy had had a friend once.   
But she couldn't really remember what he looked like. That had been ages ago, she'd only been six then. She was a lot bigger now.

“Where do you live?” Arthur was asking. “Your daddy told me you were saying with someone called Morgause?”

“Yes,” said Gwen. “I live with Morgause and Cenred in the tavern on the other side of the woods.”

“And do you like it there?”

Gwen looked at him. 

Arthur looked back. He had a kind face.

Gwen made a decision. 

“No,” she admitted. “I have to clean everything all the time and sweep the floors, and then they hit me if I don't finish it all on time. And Freya gets all the pretty dresses. I just really really want a pretty dress too sometimes.”

Arthur's expression looked very angry. He was frowning, like Cenred did just before he got out his belt. He got to his feet, and Gwen instinctively flinched back, waiting for the blow that she was sure was coming. She squeezed her eyes shut. Happy place happy place happy place, she thought.

When no strike was forthcoming, she cautiously opened one eye. Arthur was looking so sad as he stared at her. 

He fell to his knees again, and took her hands in his.

“No, no, no, sweetheart,” he said softly. “I'm not going to hit you. I promise, love, I'm never going to hit you.”

He seemed almost like he was about to start crying. 

“Oh God Merlin, Merlin, I need you now,” she heard him mutter. He looked so sad when he said Daddy's name, that Gwen knew the worst thing in the world must have happened. 

Daddy wasn't coming back.

“Where's Daddy?” she asked, not wanting to know the answer.

Arthur gathered her up in his arms and held her close. She felt more safe there than she had anywhere since Daddy had gone away. 

“He had to go away, sweetie,” said Arthur. “He had to go away to a better place, and he didn't want to leave us but sometimes God calls you and you have to go. He's an angel now, getting heaven ready for us to join him one day, but not right now. He sent me to take care of you, all right? We'll go away from here, leave Cenred and Morgause, and I promise, no one will ever hurt you again, not them, not me, not anyone. All right?”

Gwen looked at him. 

She wanted her Daddy, but if Daddy couldn't come... anything had to be better than Morgause.

She put her small hand in Arthur's, and stood up. “All right,” she said.

Together, they walked back to the inn. 

As they approached, Morgause came out to the front, brandishing a bottle of whiskey like a rapier. 

“You little brat!” she screeched at Gwen. “How long can it take to get some water, you little idiot...” Morgause cut off suddenly, catching sight of Arthur.

“M'lord, please do come inside, do you require a room for the evening, sir, how may I be of service, sir? Gwen, darling, do come to your beloved mother!”

Gwen flinched at the naked greed in her eyes. Would Arthur see it? Or might he think she'd just been making it up, that Morgause was really as lovely as she pretended to be to paying customers?

Arthur, it seemed was not fooled. “Madam, I have come on behalf of Gwen's father, to take her away from this place. I would appreciate it if you would get her her travelling clothes, so that we may be on our way.”

Morgause's eyes widened in fake anguish. “But sir, we cannot do without our beloved Gwen!” She's the light of our lives!

Gwen's saviour looked as though he had something nasty smelling under his nose.

“You will be... adequately compensated.” He sounded as if the words physically pained him to say.

A few minutes later, Gwen was being bundled into one of Freya's cloaks (she had none of her own). Arthur picked her up, and placed her on the horse.

“Hold on here,” he said, wrapping her hands round the pommel. Gwen yawned.

Arthur, went back for a few last words to the innkeeper and her husband, who'd come out to see what all the fuss was after being shouted at by his wife. Gwen didn't really listen to what they said, she was too tired, but she heard the words 'dirty cheating lying bastards'. She decided she liked Arthur. He saw things for what they really were. 

He threw a purse of money at them and swung himself up onto the horse behind Gwen.

Morgause and Cenred didn't even watch her go, already back inside ready to fleece all the customers at the inn that evening.

Gwen tried to look over his shoulder to see the place that had been her home disappearing into the distance, but she was too small to really get a good look. That was probably a good thing though, she thought. It wasn't like she wanted to see any of them again anyway. Especially not Freya.

Speaking of Freya...

“Can I have a pretty blue dress like Freya's, please?” she asked Arthur, snuggling down further towards his warm chest. 

“Of course, Gwen. You can have all the pretty dresses that you like, my dear.” She almost thought she could hear the smile in his voice.

Content that all was right in the world, and that everything could only get better from here, Gwen let herself drift off to sleep.


	9. Show Some Mercy if You Can

**Fifteen years later...**

Poor boy, Lance thought, tossing a coin at the figure crouched at the edge of the street. The boy was pox-ridden and scarred, his tiny mouth curled in a twist of pain and sadness. A miniature hand stretched out and grabbed the coin, tucking it away into some inner pocket Lance couldn't see. Then, the boy scampered away and down an alley, altogether out of sight.

Lance continued his walk. He paused to buy a loaf of bread from the stall by the church, adding a little ham from the cold meat seller on the corner. As he walked, he paused to talk to each person he met.

“How's your daughter doing?” he asked the baker with a smile.

“Better now, thank you Lance. Thanks to that big order for bread we got from your party with your friends, we managed to get some medicine. I'm very grateful to you for that.”

“Nonsense,” said Lance with a grin. “I was glad to be able to help.” 

The cold meat seller told him that he was ‘getting over his haemorrhoids very well, thank you very much.’ Lance smiled and nodded and moved on as quickly as possible – there were some images he really, really didn't need to visualize, and unfortunately Piotr liked to be rather graphic in his descriptions. 

Fortunately enough, before Piotr could get into the full swing of his usual description, Lance caught sight of Gwaine on the other side of the market, leaning against the outward wall of the Rising Sun. Lance raised a hand in greeting, and with a quick apology to Piotr, continued on his way through the market.

Lance was just passing the newspaper cart when he saw her.

The girl was standing, looking at the brightly coloured shawls on sale at one of the knick-knack stalls. She had dark curly hair, which stretched down her back like the twirling tendrils of some exotic plant. Lance had never really wanted to run his hands through a girl's hair before, but now he felt a sudden, pressing need to be as close as possible to this girl, to hold her, to feel the softness of her beautiful skin under his fingers the way she was feeling the silks on the stall. 

“Oh,” he said.

Then, a miracle happened. The girl of his dreams, perhaps sensing his gaze, raised her head and glanced around. Lance couldn't bring himself to look away, and when their eyes met, it was as though a spark of lightning flew between them. 

“Oh,” said his dream girl.

Lance felt a sudden jolt through him. He knew, right then, that this was the girl he was going to marry, because she was perfect in absolutely every way.

He raised a hand in stunned greeting and tried to smile. He felt like sheer shock was causing his face to warp into rather more of a grimace than he'd have preferred, but something of his intentions must have come across, because the girl smiled shyly and reached up to tuck one of those enchanting curls behind her ear. 

But then, an older, blonde man with a slight beard came up to Lance's girl. He tapped her on the shoulder, then, following her gaze, noticed Lance. The expression of sheer anger and terror on the man's face was something Lance was sure he'd never forget if he lived to be a hundred years old. It was strangely unsurprising, though still heartbreaking, when the blond man put his arms around Lance's future wife's shoulders, and gently guided her to turn away.

The beautiful girl glanced over her shoulder and smiled, though, and Lance felt his heart lift. Perhaps the blond wasn't her husband? Even if he was, Lance thought then that he'd happily fight a duel for the heart of the girl with the curly hair.

A heavy hand dropped down on his shoulder. 

“Mate,” said Gwaine. “What're you staring into space for? We should be starting the meeting by now.”

“Who's that girl? The dark skinned one, with the blond man.” Lance refused to take his eyes off the retreating couple.

Gwaine squinted, following Lance's gaze. “Oh, that's the family who hired the manor at the top of Muscovy Hill. He's her stepfather or something, I don't know. He's a good man though, often comes into town to share what he has with the poor and needy. Pays his tithes and goes to church.” Suddenly seeming to realise that Lance hadn't listened to a single word beyond ‘stepfather’, he rounded on him. “Why?”

“I'm in love,” Lance said dreamily. “That woman's going to be my wife one day.”

 

Gwaine practically shook him, eyes suddenly dark and angry. “You can't be in love, you stupid young fool! The revolution is coming! We're just waiting for the right sign, and then we will strike and break away from the shackles of the usurper king. Camelot will join us, and we the people will rise to rule ourselves in a people's revolution. You can't be in love – your place is here, with me – I mean, with the revolution.”

Lance wasn't really listening, mind still fixed on the dark haired girl.

“I wonder what her name is,” he said.

With a muttered oath, Gwaine turned on his heel and went straight back into the tavern. “You bloody talk some sense into him,” he almost spat at Percival, who had been standing in the doorway. “I have a bloody revolution to plan.”

Percival made his way to the still frozen Lancelot, slapping him on the back in a show of comradeliness which jolted Lance from his daze by sheer force. Percy was big. 

“What's going on then?”

“Oh, Gwaine's upset because I'm in love and he wants me to focus totally on the revolution. But how can I, when her hair is as dark as coal and her eyes as brown as the bark on the trees?”

Percy looked slightly uncomfortable. “You know why Gwaine's really upset at your sudden love for some girl, don't you Lancelot?”

“Of course, he thinks I should be focused on waiting for the sign to start the revolution.”

Percy opened his mouth once or twice as though about to say something, but then appeared to think better of it and sighed. “Oh, never mind.”

He guided Lance into the inn, gently turning him from where he was was still staring at the far end of the market where the girl had disappeared: a man obsessed.

~~~***~~~

Gwen had had enough.

She'd become used to her father's strange ways over the years. He'd often look over his shoulder as though afraid they were being followed, and she'd simply lost track of all the different cities they'd lived in over the years. But he'd promised, he'd promised that they could stay in Camelot for at least a whole year. It'd been her birthday present this year!

And now he was trying to change his mind!

“No,” she said. 

“Gwen.” Father ran a hand through his beard. He looked tired. “I saw the way he looked at you. I recognise that look. I wore it once myself.”

“No,” she said again. “I'm not going anywhere until you tell me why we have to move across the country because a man in a market looked at me.”

“It's complicated, Gwen dear. I can't – it's just that we can't afford to get attached.” His eyes darted around the room, as though searching for hidden intruders. “You never know who might be coming after us.”

“But why? Why would anyone be after us? I don't understand. Won't you explain to me what's happening, why we always have to run? I'm nearly twenty three, an adult.”

Father sighed. “Merlin, I could do with your help now,” he muttered, as he always did when stressed out, before adding “Gwen, I am your father. I don't want to talk about this, but we will be leaving in the morning. Now start packing!”

He stormed out of the room as though the devil himself were at his heels. 

Gwen looked after him, brow furrowed in a combination of anger and frustration. Why wouldn't he just tell her what was going on? Her own memories of her past were scant and hazy. She remembered Morgause and Cenred, and that she had hated them, though the specifics of her time at the inn had been blurred by time and a whole host of new experiences. She remembered being jealous of Freya, vaguely, but Father always gave Gwen everything she could ever want so nowadays it felt vaguely foreign, like something that had happened to someone else. 

She knew that she'd had a Daddy once. Gwen herself didn't remember much beyond a pair of bright blue eyes, but Father used to tell her bedtime stories, about Magical Merlin, saving the world from dragons in the name of Queen Guinevere, his beautiful daughter. Father would always cast himself as the white knight in shining armour saving the day when Magical Merlin inevitably got kidnapped by evil-doers. From the stories, and the soft look in Father's eyes when he told them, Gwen had never doubted that her Daddy had loved her very much.

But she didn't really know what had happened to him. She'd asked, a few times, but Father's eyes would go soft, and it almost looked like he was going to tear up. Father did so much for her, she hated to see him in pain, so after a while Gwen just stopped asking. But then, like now, it was just so frustrating when he wouldn't tell her what was going on!

Not that this was a particularly uncommon occurrence. Albedocque, Ealdor, Ashkanar, Carleon... they'd lived in every major city in Albion. Except Essetir – Father refused to set foot past the city walls, said the place was evil. 

And now they'd come to Camelot, the capital. Just like every other time, after a few months in a place, Father would suddenly arrive from work or town one day and declare they'd be moving. A few days later, they would be translocated to an entirely new city, with a new house, new servants, new everything. Nothing ever stayed the same – Gwen was used to it by now.

But then, today, there'd been the man in the market. And suddenly, Gwen didn't want to go! Or at least, if she had to, she wanted to know why.

Suppressing another sigh, Gwen wandered out to the balcony. She looked out across the gardens, which she'd been tending so faithfully for the past few months. The poppies were just beginning to bloom. In the dying evening light, they were a few bright spots of red among the greenery, waving in the wind. 

From the corner of her eye, Gwen saw a lamp fire up in her Father's study. He'd be sitting in there all night now, brooding over papers and muttering obscenities. It was his usual way when they'd argued. When she was younger, she'd used to sit outside the door to his study, cross legged and petulant, because at least that way she knew he couldn't leave her behind, even when they fought. 

As she grew up, she found that hearing the anguished cries of “Oh, Merlin!” through the door was more painful than the fights themselves, so she stopped sitting and waiting, and instead would sequester herself in her room until he came to find her.

Tonight, though, Gwen was restless. Rather than sit feeling sorry for herself, she decided to go and see her poppies, taking advantage of the last of the light. After all, if she never got to see them again, she'd at least be able to say goodbye to the flowers which were her closest friends. 

Decision made, she picked up her favourite blue cloak from its place hanging on the wall, wrapped it round her, and headed outside. 

The sun was descending slowly, leaving the sky a whorl of red and orange, when she finally completed her first circuit of the grounds and arrived at the poppies by the wrought iron gate. 

She drew her hand softly across one of the bright red blooms. Gwen had always loved the colour, so vibrant and fresh in a world which so often seemed grey.

“Ahem.” A light cough came from the gates a few feet away. Startled, Gwen looked over. The man from the market was standing there. His eyes were dark like the melted cocoa she used to drink with Father on cold evenings, and the expression in them – well, Gwen supposed she had much the same expression in hers. She wasn't quite ready to attach the word to it yet, but it was certainly close. 

“Hello,” she said. 

“Hello,” he replied. “I'm sorry to intrude on you this fine evening, but I saw you earlier -”

“In the market, yes.”

“-in the market, and you're gorgeous and I just had to know you better.”

Gwen felt her cheeks beginning to heat at the unexpected praise. But it was nice to know that her sentiments had not gone unreturned. 

“Will you -” 

“Oh God,” she interrupted, heart overflowing. “Yes. Anything; for you, anything. You're-”

“Perfect, you're perfect, I saw you by the silks and I knew you were mine and perfect,”

“- saw you looking and knew that I wanted -”

“- this is ridiculous and I'm doing it all wrong -”

“- feel like my heart's spilling over with -”

“- and I knew it was you, that you were my -”

“-love.” They finished the last word together, at the same time, and paused, staring at one another, eyes shining. 

“I don't even know your name,” said Gwen's beloved.

“Guinevere, called Gwen,” she replied. 

“Gwen,” he breathed, as though the word was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. “I am Lancelot du Lac.”

“Lancelot,” said Gwen. “Your name is perfect, as is the rest of you.” 

They stared at each other for a while, full of wonder. Then, Gwen remembered why she'd been out in the garden in the first place. 

“Father says we have to leave tomorrow! He won't tell me why, or listen to reason, but he's afraid of something, and says we must depart at dawn. I don't know where we're going, but judging by past experience we'll never be able to return.” Gwen felt stricken: she couldn't lose this now, she just couldn't! 

Lancelot bit his lip. The motion almost managed to distract Gwen completely, the full lip being worried by bright white teeth making her want to kiss it better.

“Don't worry,” he said. “I will not, I cannot allow you to leave, now that I've found you. Tomorrow, at dawn, I'll return here: if we cannot convince your father to allow us to stay with the evidence of our love, I will follow you wherever you go, and we can be together there. I won't lose you. We are as destined for one another as Heloise and Abelard. We will grow together like two vines on a tree, swirling round each other evermore.”

She laughed. “Such a metaphor! I like that. I'd like to grow with you.”

His smile seemed to light up Gwen's world, though the sun had by now set below the horizon, and even the final rays had vanished into the ether. 

“I must go prepare my belongings, if we are to leave,” he murmured, eyes still locked on hers as though afraid to blink in case Gwen disappeared. “I'll return at first light, and then we will have forever.”

“'Til dawn then,” Gwen whispered, not wanting to break the spell.

“Til dawn, my love.” Lancelot reached through the bars of the gate and touched her face gently, before spinning on his heel and disappearing into the oncoming night.


	10. Singing the Song of Angry Men

The Sword and Stone Inn, headquarters of Gwaine's resistance movement and lodging for most of its members, who were in the most part also students at the University, was far from its usual state of raucous revelry. It was still loud, but now with the sounds of angry voices and shouting, and no one was drinking. Instead, there was the tension in the air of a pot about to boil, a mob about to attack.

Percy surveyed the room from his usual standpoint by the door. There were people everywhere, weaving between one another, discussing the news in hushed whispers. As it ever was, Percy's gaze was drawn to Gwaine, at the front of the room. He looked magnificent, a lion in his element, a lord among his knights. He was gesticulating wildly, talking to some of the younger students about the Plan – Percy mentally inserted the capital letter, knowing that Gwaine would certainly be doing so. You could hear it every time he spoke – just part of his passion, Percy felt. Gwaine was always truly committed to everything he did. It was probably his most attractive quality – after his gorgeous exterior of course.

Of course, it was precisely this same quality which made sure that Percy would never have Gwaine, not as he really wanted him, at least. Sure, Gwaine called upon Percy when he needed a quick release of tension, particularly on days when the regime had done something particularly horrible, or another informant had “disappeared” under mysterious circumstances. But Percy did his utmost not to let any truth about the depth of his feelings for Gwaine show, and thought he'd been mostly successful. He was never going to be anything more than just a quick fuck to Gwaine, and he knew it, because Gwaine was both stubborn enough and dedicated enough to never, ever give up on his hopeless adoration for -

“What on Earth is going on in here?”

Lance. Ah. Speak, or rather think, of the Devil.

He turned, careful to keep his face impassive as he always did when around Lance. Not that he disliked the man – no, that would be impossible, he was the kindest and most genuine person on Earth. But he was also sometimes the most naïve, and Percy spent at least half of the time in conversation with him suppressing the urge to shake him shouting “Wake up! Can't you see what you're doing to Gwaine? Doing to me?” 

Instead of doing this, he took a deep breath and answered Lancelot's actual question.

“News has just come in that the Tyrant Olaf has died. The regime will be weak now – Gwaine believes that it's time to rise against the oppressors before they have a chance to regroup.”

 

He watched Lance's eyes widen as he took this in. Percy could almost see the thoughts flicker across his face. Olaf, formerly head of the Albion Army, had taken the throne from the last of the Pendragons nearly forty years before in a bloody coup d'etat. He'd had popular support then, thanks to the dynasty's history of autocracy and its repeated disbanding of parliament, but that support had eroded quickly when Olaf turned out to be far worse than the man he'd replaced. 

Desperate to regain popularity and strength, Olaf had begun a completely immoral smear campaign against anyone with the name Pendragon – which was rather a lot of people, since the former king who Olaf had usurped had been one of fifteen children, considered about the average amount for a branch of the Pendragon family – arresting them on trumped up charges and banning them from positions of power or influence; many just disappeared. 

Within a few years, the witch hunts had spread to everyone who expressed the slightest bit of even imaginary dissent, and the new regime was hated more than the old, and there were whispers of discontent throughout the land.

Some spoke of returning to the time of Pendragon, but Gwaine, of course was a full-blown diehard revolutionary, and was planning to overthrow the monarchy completely. “What good has it ever done us, the people?” he would ask, usually at least two flagons into his mead. The Red Flag Movement, which he had founded, attempted to harness the old-fashioned symbolism so beloved by the middle aged by taking Pendragon red as its symbol, but Gwaine himself was adamant that no King would ever rule Albion again.

He might just be right. Olaf had no sons, only a daughter, Vivian. She was flighty and weak, but cruel. She'd once asked for the head of a man who'd refused her advances on a stake; and her father had given it her.   
The people had no love for Vivian, and would not welcome her as their Queen. Percy felt deep in his bones that Gwaine was right, the time to strike was now. The people of Albion would rise with them.

Lance looked queerly stricken for someone who had been a key member of the Red Flag Movement since its inception. But then, everyone knew that really his family was very rich, so perhaps he'd just been playing at revolutionary all along.

“Lance, you're back!” Gwaine appeared, swinging one arm over Lance's shoulder and holding him slightly closer than would have been proper for anyone but Gwaine. Lance didn't seem to notice, but Percy pasted on a smile and tried to bite down the burst of jealousy which ran through him. 

He really ought to be used to this by now.

“Yes, I'm here. I've heard about Olaf. It's time, then?”

Gwaine's grin was feral. “Yes, it's time. We will build the barricade across Camlann Avenue tonight, and at dawn we'll raise the red flags of freedom. Some will die, but others will have a chance to live, truly live for the first time! You'll join us on the front line, of course?”

Lance's expression became even more miserable. “But I...”

“What?” The arm was immediately removed, but only because Gwaine grabbed Lance's shoulders and spun him around, shaking him slightly. “Really? After all the work we've done, all the planning, all the preparation, you're going to skip out on your duty now? There can be nothing more important than the revolution! You have a duty to the people of Albion, to your friends!”

Percy winced inwardly at the almost pleading tone in Gwaine's voice. Gwaine shouldn't beg. It just wasn't right. Something was wrong with the world, when Gwaine's voice sounded like that. 

He watched Lance's face spasm in paroxysms of agony. Whatever it was that he wanted to be doing instead of raising the barricade, it was clearly important to him. 

For a split second, Percy felt a traitorous hope rise in his heart – that Lance would leave, and break Gwaine's heart, and maybe, just maybe... but no, he couldn't wish that on Gwaine. Especially not tonight, the night before the barricades, when they might all die in the morning.

He breathed a sigh of relief, unsurprised, when Lance made his decision.

“I know. I'll stay. I have a duty. A duty to the People.”

Here was another one who could insert capital letters in speech, flew the errant, irreverent thought through Percy's brain. He quashed it immediately.

Lance was still talking. “But I must first take a note, to tell her that I won't be able to come.”

“No!” Gwaine all but shouted. “You're needed here, I need you here – I mean, the revolution needs you here!”

Lance, as ever, was entirely oblivious. 

“I'll only be an hour or so, if that.”

Seeing the look on Gwaine's face, anger and anguish mixed, and the lengths he was going to to hide it, Percy sighed internally and made a decision. 

“I'll deliver it,” he said.

“What?”

“I'll deliver it, to whoever it is that you need to see. Write the note now, and I'll take it wherever it needs to go. After all,” he tried to keep the bitterness out of his tone, “I'm not as critical to the revolution as you are. You're the brains, I'm just the brawn.”

Lance started. “No, that's not -”

But Percy just held up one hand, fishing in his pocket for a piece of paper with the other. He was a student, it was always handy to have paper around, even if in his case, it usually ended up being used more for spitballs to get Gwaine's attention than actual lecture notes. 

He deliberately didn't look at Gwaine as he spoke. “Just write the damn note, so I can be gone and back again. Otherwise we'll be here arguing 'til dawn.”

A pen was procured, and Lance scribbled on the paper. Both Gwaine and Percy pretended not to see the silent tears streaking down his face as he did so, and he brushed them away as soon as he was done.

“Thank you,” he murmured in a tone far too heartfelt for Percy's comfort. “Please take it to Guinevere, in the big white house at the top of Muscovy hill.”

Percy nodded, and turned to leave, still not looking at Gwaine. “I'll return,” he said.

He glanced a look over his shoulder when he was just outside the Inn, but Gwaine and Lancelot had already turned away, Gwaine's arm once again shrugged across his friend's shoulders. Percy tried to ignore the dull ache of his heart, and turned away as the rain began to fall softly over the city of Camelot.

~~~***~~~

Percy made it a whole twenty minutes away from the Sword and Stone before he gave in. He ducked under an awning outside a house halfway up the hill, unfolded the note and read it. 

My dearest Gwen,

I love you, my darling. Since the first moment I set eyes on you, I have known that we are destined for one another: I felt instinctively that you were an angel sent to Earth to guide and guard me in this life; you were and are perfection incarnate. I want nothing more than to follow you wherever you may go.

But Gwen, I have a duty, to my friends and to my convictions. I have long believed in the right of every man to live his life free of tyranny, and to that end I will be protesting on the barricade of Camlann Avenue tomorrow. We expect to be attacked by the cruel guns of the authorities, and I do not know whether I will survive the onslaught. Even if I do, I am certain your father will have taken you far away by the time I return.

Go with him, Gwen, escape the madness which is about to overcome this city. Do not mourn for me, my dear. I would rather live and grow old with you than anything in the world, but sometimes a man must choose what is right, even over the people he loves, or he is not a true man under God. If I did not stand on the barricade, I would not be worthy of your love, most beloved Gwen. It is a gift that I cannot turn away from, now that I have it. I must strive to be worthy of you, dearest.

And for that I must do my duty.

I love you.

Lancelot.

There was a slight tear mark blurring the last few words a little, though they were still legible. 

As he continued up Muscovy Hill, Percy's heart felt heavy, and he didn't know whether to shake his head at the flowery language, or shed a tear at the sentiments expressed. He did neither, not least because he was standing at the ornate wooden door which was his destination.

He raised a hand to knock. 

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Considering the hour, it was opened relatively quickly, by an older blonde man, who looked to be in his forties or fifties. He looked shiftily from left to right. One arm was slightly out of sight, and Percy wondered whether he was hiding a sword or other weapon behind the door.

“May I help you?” he asked tightly.

Percy held out the note. “I have a letter for a Guinevere, I believe that she lives here.”

The man blinked, clearly shocked at that response, of all things. Percy supposed that it was rather odd.

“And this letter must be delivered at this late hour?”

Percy shrugged. “Is she available? I was told to give it to her.”

The man shook his head. “She is abed, it is rather late. I am her father, Arthur. Give me the letter for her.”

Percy hesitated a moment, but it wasn't as though he had any other choice, not when he was so desperate to get back to the inn quickly. And there was no way to get past the father, not without starting a fight, which he was loath to do. Starting fights with older men for good reason was not his style. 

“Thank you, sir,” he said, handing over the letter. He began the long trek back down the hill.

~~~***~~~

But when he returned to the inn, it was mostly empty. Not only of people – of most of the furniture, too. One, lonely looking old man was leaning against the empty bar, sipping from a flagon. 

A tired looking barmaid swept the floor with a threadbare broom made of mostly broken twigs.

“Where is everyone, Mary?” Percy asked the barmaid.

“Gone to build the barricade, 'aven't they? Took all me furniture, that Master Gwaine did. For the revolution!” Percy recognised the smile which came across her face at Gwaine's name. He suspected his own face had worn much the same expression, at one time or another. “I'll join 'em as soon as I can get rid of old Higgins.” She gestured to the man at the bar. “'E does like 'is mead.”

“Thank you,” Percy threw over his shoulder, already making his way out the door.

It didn't take long before he saw the barricade. It loomed out of the darkness like an overwhelming shadow, stretching up out of the dark. Percy had half expected the street to be bustling, but it was more of a quiet, expectant air. As he approached the barricade, a voice called out: 

“Who goes there?”

“It's me, Percy.”

“Right, come on over.”

A flaming torch was raised above the barricade, so that Percy could see the rope being lowered over it for him to climb. The barricade was at least three times the height of a man, made of seemingly every piece of movable furniture from five streets around. He spat in his hands, rubbed them on his breeches, and began to shimmy up the rope, muscles straining.

When he finally lowered himself to the floor on the other side, having thrown the rope over, he was followed by the man who'd been holding the torch, now extinguished. He looked older than Percy had expected, considering the ease with which he'd shimmied down the rope, perhaps in his mid sixties. His hair was grey, and his eyes were harsh. But if he was on this side of the barricade, he must be part of the movement. 

“I don't believe we've met, I'm Percy,” he said politely, holding out a hand.

“Uther,” the other man replied. “I've only been part of the movement for a few days, but I'm keen to do my part.”

Something in Percy twitched a little, but there was no reason to disbelieve the man. Not if Gwaine trusted him. So he nodded, and turned to go and find his friends.


	11. The World I Have Known is Lost in Shadow

Arthur closed the door behind the large man who had delivered the note. He released his hold on his sword in the holder behind the door, hand shaking slightly. That had been an unexpected interlude to his evening.

He'd been packing the last of his papers - deciding what to burn, and what to bring for the move, when he'd heard the knocking. He'd been expecting Uther, the man who'd haunted his nightmares for fifteen years, or in the very best case scenario, someone else from the constabulary or the army.

But it had been neither of those things: not for him at all in fact.

He barely wrestled with his conscience for more than a minute before unfolding the note. Gwen was his daughter, he had a right to know what was going on. Especially when it might threaten them both, for reasons she couldn't hope to understand. By the time she'd grown up, the witch hunt against Pendragons which he'd grown up with was all but gone, but that didn't mean he felt safe. 

You couldn't feel safe when you'd spent your whole life running, and had a death sentence hanging over your head.

He opened the note, and read it.

And read it again.

He thought of Merlin, of how he'd seen the man he loved save him from being run over, and had known, just known that this was it for him, whether he liked it or not.

He thought about how they'd had such scant, short happiness, before it had all been stolen by circumstances.

He thought about Gwen, growing up with only him for company, and how Merlin had always wanted, above anything else, for her to be happy.

He thought about how, fifteen years ago, he'd made the decision to put his duty over his burgeoning family by going to the courtroom at Ostia. He'd never regretted it, because it had been the right thing to do, but it had cost him dear: missing his Merlin's last day on this Earth. 

Arthur came to a decision.

~~~***~~~

“Who goes there?” came a call over the barricade, when Arthur finally made it to Camlann Avenue.

“A friend of the revolution – I swear I wish only to help your cause. In the name of the Pendragons – though I recognise that their time has gone.”

He heard some discussion from the other side of the wall; they seemed to be uncertain of him. He closed his eyes, and played his trump card. 

“I come also in the name of my daughter, Guinevere, who I believe is beloved by one of you.”

After a few more seconds of furious but inaudible conversation, a flaming torch appeared at the top of the barricade, and a rope was lowered. Arthur pulled himself over with little difficulty, nodding to the man at the top holding the torch, who was the same person that had delivered the note for Gwen.

He shimmied down the rope, thanking God for the years of running which had kept him limber and fit even into his middle age. 

“He's good,” a voice behind him called down, as the large note deliverer dropped the last few feet to the cobblestones. “That's her father, the man I delivered the note to.”

There were murmurs, and then a dark haired man stepped forward. “I am Lancelot. I – your daughter – well, I absolutely adore her.”

Arthur studied him. His dark eyes seemed intelligent, but more importantly, they shone as though lit up with an inner fire. That fire was one Arthur recognised, and he refused to make a snap judgment, but on first impressions he thought that that might just be the sort of fire to bend the untried steel of his daughter's will. 

Arthur nodded gravely in acknowledgement. If this man was Gwen's choice, so be it. He'd do everything in his power to keep him safe.

Lancelot stepped forward. “Is Gwen – I mean, did she get my letter? What's going on?”

“The servants are under orders to keep her confined to the grounds until either you or I return. I do not like limiting her freedoms, but she will be safe there. And -”

He stopped, suddenly. A figure that he'd never forget for as long as he lived was there, at the back of the crowd, trying to climb surreptitiously over the barricade while everyone else was distracted by Arthur's presence.

“What the fuck is that bastard doing here?”

Everyone turned to see where he was looking. “Why the fuck is Uther here? He's one of them, an officer in the army!”

With a roar of rage, a man with a shaggy brown beard raced to the barricade and literally pulled Uther bodily off. The note deliverer rushed to help, and between them they held the officer, one holding each arm, bending him over and preventing him from moving. 

“He's an officer of the law, I swear it,” said Arthur more calmly. “I know this because I was a criminal: I served time in the mines for stealing a loaf to feed my sister's starving son.”

He held his head high, waiting for some retaliation that never came. These, too were the poor and destitute of Albion. They knew what it was to have no choice.

The bearded man looked hard at Arthur, staring into his eyes, then nodded to himself. “I have seen you, you come down to give alms to the poor when you can. We are all criminals in the eyes of the unjust law. I am Gwaine, leader of this movement. We thank you for identifying the traitor in our midst. Is there anything we can grant you in return?”

Arthur did not need to think about it. “Please, allow me to deal with Uther myself. He tore me away from the bedside of my dying lover. I would have my revenge.”

Gwaine nodded, expression grave, and motioned to a few more of the men. They brought rope, and tied Uther's hands in front of him. Taking hold of the man's collar, Arthur dragged him into one of the empty houses at the side of the street.

Just as they drew out of sight of the others, Uther snarled and spun, and stabbed Arthur hard in the thigh with a blade which he must have hidden up his sleeve. 

Arthur cried out, but instinct took over and with one powerful punch he sent the other man flying across the room and into a wall. Arthur kicked the dropped knife as far away from him as possible in disgust. 

Eyes slightly glazed, Uther looked up at him.

“Why do you hate me so?” asked Arthur. He didn't really expect an answer. 

“You are a criminal,” Uther spat. “You escaped punishment, but you must be punished for your crimes, or the law is not upheld! Only criminal scum commit crimes, and I exist to destroy you.”

Seeing the other man all but writhing with rage, Arthur couldn't muster the anger which had sustained his running away for the past twenty years. All he felt now was tired.

“But you were born Pendragon, too. You must understand that the law isn't applied equally, that it's not always the be all and end all, not under this regime at least. I served my time for the crime I committed. All I tried to do was start a new life.”

“New life!” Uther's eyes were wild. “How can you have a new life? Criminals like you cannot change. Go on then, just kill me. You know you want to, and you will eventually.”

Arthur closed his eyes. He was so tired and his leg hurt where Uther had managed to stab deep into his muscle. “Oh, fuck off Uther. I don't know why you're so convinced that anyone who commits even a minor crime must be pursued with such vigour, but you’re wrong. I grew up on the streets of Essetir. Many people around me had to commit 'crimes' in the eyes of the state simply to survive childhood.”

He stepped towards Uther, and cocked his head, considering. Then, he picked up the discarded knife which had been used to attack him, and cut Uther's bonds with it. “This is my gift to you, because I am more than my past.”

Uther looked beyond confused, more as though his whole world view was collapsing. “But – why? How can you let me go, when I have chased you for twenty years? You must hate me absolutely.”

Arthur looked at him levelly. He felt in his heart that this was the right thing to do. “Yes, I do. But I know that my soul belongs to God, and God would not want me to kill you. I give you the divine gift of mercy, now, because I can, and because you are wrong, and I am not damned for something I did over forty years ago to try and save the life of my nephew. I had just lost my mother, Ygraine, and my father abandoned us – there was no one to take care of my sister and her son but me. I did what I had to. I believe in a just and merciful God, and I trust that he will forgive me that, finally.”

As he said it, Arthur felt the words to be true. He'd never allowed himself this before, but now he truly thought that perhaps he could be free. 

First, however, there was a revolution to survive.

“Go, now, Uther.” He gestured to the back door of the house. “Fuck off and leave me alone, at least for one day. Tomorrow, if I survive this barricade, you will find me at the white house on Muscovy Hill, and I will come quietly into your custody at last.”

“And what guarantee have I of that? The word of a criminal?” Uther even sounded as though he were clutching at straws.

“No, Uther. The word of the man who just saved your life.”

Uther turned without another word and exited through the back door of the house.

Sighing, and wincing at the pain in his leg, Arthur went outside.

“It is dealt with,” he responded, at Gwaine's questioning look. He was the only one still standing, just preparing to climb the barricade to replace the man on watch.

The revolutionary nodded. “There are only a few hours now, until the dawn when we raise the flags of freedom. We have spread the word, and the people of Albion will rise up with us to defeat the tyrant.”

Arthur nodded. “I will take first watch,” he said. “You need rest, and I do not feel that I shall be able to sleep tonight.”

Scrutinising him closely, Gwaine appeared to see the truth in this in Arthur's face, so he surrendered the rope the blond, who climbed swiftly to the top of the barricade, trying to ignore the dull pain in his leg. There was nothing to be done about it now, not when so many of the city's medicines would be required in the morning.

He stared across the rooftops of the quiet city at the stars. “Oh God, Merlin. I wish that you were here with me now,” he murmured. “I feel the lack of you every day, every breath, every heartbeat. But right now, I wish that you were here beside me, keeping me warm.” 

It was a balmy summer night, but that wasn't the sort of warm that Arthur meant. It was Merlin's spirit he missed, not his physical heat.

“Take care of Lancelot, Merlin,” he said softly. “Watch over him on this barricade, sweetheart. If Gwen loves him half as much as I love you, she will need him for much longer than they've had so far. He is the son we never had time for.”

As the stars twinkled over Camelot, Arthur waited for the dawn.

~~~***~~~

Uther scrambled through the streets, mind awhirl. How? What? Why?

The thief had had Uther at his mercy – with just a flick of his knife, he could have been dead. The long chase might have been over. 

What kind of devil could Arthur Pendragon be, to catch Uther in such a trap? If he upheld the ideas of the law which had been the cornerstone of his life, which had been the only thing in his life, then he was betraying a life debt. 

Indebted! To a thief!

But he could no more not follow his ideals than he could live in debt!

Truly, the devil had sent him this situation. He was totally in thrall to Pendragon – it must be so. Pendragon had given him life, but at what cost? 

Uther could not live like this – no, no, no, in debt to a thief? 

How could he doubt that criminals never changed? That they were scum? 

If he began to doubt this, then perhaps – perhaps – perhaps – 

He had done things in the name of the law that, if the law were not the immovable, complete, perfect marble edifice which he had been upholding – if it were not that – 

Then what did that make Uther?

Pendragon should have just killed him – he had the right.

Pendragon – his name was Pendragon. And his mother had been called Ygraine, and lived on the streets of Essetir. Uther raised his eyes to the cruel, pale light of the moon and screamed. 

He'd had to leave – there'd been no choice! The recruiters of the militia had come calling, had been leaving immediately with the new recruits. It paid so much better than what he'd been able to find in Essetir, what with his name. He had no choice! He had to provide for his wife, pregnant with twins as she was. She couldn't have lived otherwise.

He'd written Ygraine a letter. Had it never arrived? His pay, which he'd been sending home to her, never had. Uther had returned to the city just a few months later after his training, only to be told that his family had been tossed out onto the streets by the bailiffs for not paying the rent. He'd searched and searched, but never found them – he'd thought she'd died in childbirth, along with the children. 

But – but – Pendragon, the thief's name was Pendragon – his mother, Ygraine – sister – oh God. Oh God. 

In his consternation, Uther had utterly forgotten that he was supposed to be spying on the rebellion for the army lying in wait just a few streets away. What matter the rebellion, when he was spinning and swirling in his own personal version of Hell?

Could Pendragon be right? That he had served his time, that he had created a new life? That he had no choice? But if that was the case – if criminals were people, just like him, then what separated Uther from the men he had tortured in the name of justice? What if he had been torturing the innocent?

Had he been torturing his own son?

Pendragon should just have killed him. Better to die, than to live in this hell of his own making.

Of his own making? No, no, no.

Almost without thinking, he found himself on the long, high bridge which stretched across the Cam, the river which wound through the centre of Albion's capital.

Dizzily, he looked down. The black waters seemed so far away from here, but they swirled and crashed on the rocks, mimicking the tumultuous heave of his thoughts.

As if in a trance, Uther climbed on to the thick stone railing of the bridge.

He stretched his head up to the stars, which had always been his guidance in times of trouble. They were immutable, guiding, perfect, just as he had thought the law to be.

But what if if wasn't?

The thief – his son – no, no, not his son, please God let it be a horrible coincidence – should just have killed him.

There was only room for one of them in this world – only one of them could be right in their conception of reality. 

Uther thought that tonight, he had realised who.

He didn't like the answer.

Uther Pendragon stretched out his arms, closed his eyes, and embraced the empty void.

He flew.


	12. On the Lonely Barricade at Dawn

As the first rays of sun crept over the horizon, Gwaine motioned to the trumpeters and bugle players among them, and they began to play a triumphant chorus across the city of Camelot. 

He then hoisted the huge red flag on the makeshift flagpole at the top of the barricade.

“Freedom!” he yelled, voice carrying farther than should have been possible, as if by magic or some divine intervention. “Down with the monarchy! Camelot will rise, and the people will be free!”

A huge cheer rose up from behind the barricade. It seemed almost as though they might just manage this – this revolution, this people's parade. Arthur felt his heart swell, with pride and joy, and perhaps something else. 

Solidarity.

Here were tens of people, perhaps hundreds, who had gone through the same sort of travesties as him, all at the hands of a mad king, whose regime might finally be overthrown. Arthur at last felt at home somewhere, back on the streets, even though he was hundreds of miles from his birthplace.

And then the first shot was fired; and everything went to hell.

~~~***~~~

It was chaos, utter chaos. Lance had totally lost his sense of orientation – all that he could do was keep firing his rifle through the small gap in the barricade which he'd claimed as his own.  
Fire, reload, fire again, reload. Fire, reload, fire again, reload.   
It was a pattern, though he couldn't see through the smoke that filled the road ahead to aim properly.

It was Gwen's father who was handing him shells. He leaned heavily against a chest of drawers which was at the base of the barricade, replenishing ammunition as everyone emptied their chambers. He looked tired, but resolute. 

If he'd not been so focused on his own situation, Lance might have liked to share a grin with him, perhaps a cynical laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of this situation. But there was no time for that.

He did chance a glance upwards, once. Gwaine was still near the top of the barricade, ducking and wheeling like a madman between chair legs and tables and even lamps, firing at every officer who came within range and hitting more than he missed. As always, Percival was near his friend, using his massive arms to throw huge rocks at the incoming men on horses. More than a few had been felled by his sheer strength and determination, but more and more of them just seemed to keep coming.

Lance reloaded his rifle, and fired again. It seemed the best thing to do. In fact, it seemed the only thing to do at this point.

Where were the reinforcements? Why weren't the citizens of Camelot flooding to join the revolution?

~~~***~~~

The whispers spread across the city. It was a small boy who finally brought them to the barricade; he'd slipped in through a back alley which had been too small for the constabulary to worry about. 

His sandy hair was streaked with dirt, and sticking up in all directions. His eyes were brimming with tears, and his voice was cracked and breaking, though it was about five years too early for it to be happening because of puberty. Percy knew what he was going to say before he spoke, and felt his stomach drop.

“We are alone,” he called, high voice cutting through the madness of the smoke and gunshots in a brief pause, as though he were a messenger from God – or more likely, the Angel of Death. “The people of Camelot have not arisen. We are alone.”

Percy looked at Gwaine's face, then almost wished he hadn't. It was ashen, and his mouth was twisted tight in anger and pain. 

He swung down the barricade, motioning the others to follow. Percy immediately did, of course. He would follow Gwaine anywhere.

The gunshots from the other side of the barricade stopped briefly, as though the world was holding its breath. 

“Surrender!” a voice called from beyond the barricade. Gwaine raised two fingers in a v-shape over the barricade. Percy was surprised there was no retaliatory shot, just another should of “Surrender! You are alone and outnumbered!” 

The revolutionaries gathered around Gwaine at street level. Percy looked around – there were so few of them. So few. But too many were women and children, far too many for his liking. This could only end badly.

“We are betrayed,” Gwaine said, his voice steady, though filled with pain. “The people of Camelot have not arisen behind our flag, so we are alone. 

“But I will fight. For freedom from tyranny, I will stay on the barricade as long as I am able, and I will take as many of those bastards as I can down with me. Any man who wishes to leave may do so now: understand, those of us who remain will surely die, but we will die with our ideals intact, and we will be martyrs to freedom.

“Any person who wishes to leave, you may do so now without regret, without prejudice. For this is a hopeless last crusade.”

No one moved. 

Gwaine smiled, the last, cold, desperate smile of a man who knew he was about to die. “Let's get the fuckers.”

~~~***~~~

Lance was firing again, but this time there was no rhythm, rhyme or reason to it. He just grabbed the shells as soon as Arthur (he had the permission of Gwen's father to call him by his name, that was a good sign, right? Lance pushed away the irrelevant, far too hopeful thought) gave them to him and fired haphazardly. 

Half the time he wasn't even certain he was shooting at the officers. The bullets could have been going in completely the wrong direction, not hitting anything at all. 

But there was nothing to do but keep firing, so that's what Lance did. 

He tried to ignore the screams around him as revolutionaries fell. Blood spattered on to his face from someone collapsed over a table a few feet above him. He stretched his arms up above him to block it - 

There was a shout of “No!” from somewhere behind him. Was that Arthur?

He looked down. There appeared to be a blood stain spreading across his abdomen.

“Oh,” he said. That was odd.

~~~***~~~

Arthur caught Lancelot as he tumbled from his perch, revolver falling from his trembling hands. 

“No, no, no,” he cried. Gwen couldn't lose him now. Arthur had come here to make sure he survived, he couldn't be dead. He couldn't.

Hastily, he pulled Lance's injured body behind the cover of a table which was standing on its side. Frantically, he reached for Lancelot's pulse point. He only breathed out again when he felt it: faint, fluttering, but there. 

Desperately, he pulled his shirt off, and made it into a makeshift bandage. He wound it around the bullet wound in the boy's hip, tying it in a haphazard knot. The blood stopped moving quite so fast, and Lancelot was still breathing, so Arthur counted that as a win.

He had been almost unconscious of the battle raging around them. It was quieter now, and Arthur looked around only to be surrounded by dead bodies. He saw the small boy who'd bought the news that they were alone. He was pale, almost ghostlike, and his head was at an impossible angle. Arthur turned away.

He could see Percy and Gwaine, still up on the barricade, taking guns from dead bodies to fire shots at the enemy. They seemed to be the only two people still moving up there.

He looked around. They were the only two people moving anywhere in sight. 

Horribly aware of the fact that within a few minutes this place would be overflowing with officers of the law, after which he would be taken back to the mines, or more likely killed outright. Lancelot would die of his wounds if they did not get treated soon – but he couldn't go to a doctor, not when he'd just been part of the revolution. 

They'd be watching all the backdoors and alleys, now that they'd clearly decided to kill everyone on the barricades. They'd want to make sure no one escaped to tell the tale.

They'd be watching, and they'd crucify him.

Arthur's eyes fell upon the drain cover. Maybe there was one way out.

He threw Lance over his left shoulder, ignoring the pain which it caused to shoot through his leg, and made for the sewers.

~~~***~~~

Percy looked at Gwaine. 

Gwaine looked at Percy.

“It's just us, isn't it?” asked Percy quietly. The were ducked together behind a chest of drawers which had been riddled with bullet holes.

“Yes, I think it is,” said Gwaine. He looked up. The flag had fallen to half mast, slipping down the flagpole as the ropes were weakened by stray bullets.

“Shall we raise the flag one last time for the revolution, Percy?”

Percy smiled. “I would follow you into hell itself, Gwaine.”

He felt himself being carefully surveyed. He looked back into Gwaine's eyes, and felt that perhaps for the first time, the other man saw him for everything he was.

“I'm glad you're here with me, Percy. Here at the end.”

Then, his grin wide and feral, Gwaine swung himself upward, and to the top of the barricade. Percy followed, laughing exultantly.

They raised the flag between them, arms high in the air filling the air with their last, hysterical laughter.

Then the bullets came, and hand in hand they fell across the barricade. The grins remained on their faces, and caused the officer who found them a few hours later to cross himself in superstition when he saw them.


	13. They Will Live Again in Freedom

Lance blinked awake. 

He looked around – the room was not one he recognised. The bed was far too comfortable to be the one he usually had in the inn. The whitewashed walls, bright airy windows, and the vase of poppies on the bedside table were all alien to him. But poppies...

He became aware that there was someone holding his hand. With great effort, trying not to wince at the pain, he turned his head. 

There was Gwen, holding his left hand between both of hers. She was asleep in a chair beside his bed, head resting on one of the arms. Her face creased was into lines of worry, even in her sleep, but her curly hair stretched across the chair behind her like some untameable, unchangeable monster. 

She was beautiful.

As though somehow realising that she was under observation, her eyes fluttered open.

“Lance?” she asked, stifling a yawn. He saw the exact moment that she realised he was awake, for her face creased into the biggest smile he had ever seen. “Lance!”

“Gwen.”

Even he could hear all the love and reverence in his tone. Was that really what he sounded like? Were his emotions really that clear, always? Probably, for her smile had become even wider, though he hadn't thought it possible.

“I survived then? Who else?”

The smile disappeared a little then, and a slight frown creased her forehead. She bit her lip.

“Father carried you here, when you were shot. You've been asleep for a week, we gave you all the medicines we could. No doctor is treating anyone who looks like they might have been on the barricade, they want to keep themselves separate, safe. Vivian's on a witch hunt for anyone she thinks might be connected, even in the slightest way.”

He stopped her babbling by slightly raising his hand. It hurt, everything did. “Who else, Gwen?”

She shook her head. “No one.”

He bit his lip in anguish. “Not one? Gwaine? Percy? Kay?”

Her expression said it all.

“Oh God. I should have died, why I am I alive?! I should have been there, I should have saved them!”

Gwen hushed him, holding his hand tighter and moving closer.

“Lancelot, father said that it was almost all over by the time you were shot. There was nothing you could have done, nothing. It's a miracle that you survived at all, but you're here, you came back to me. Thank God for that alone, and grieve for those who died fighting for their cause. But don't you dare talk about joining them, don't you dare. You're mine, you came back to me, and I am never, ever letting you leave me again.”

He wiped the tears from her eyes with his thumb. “All right. It's over. But I need some time Gwen, you understand that, don't you?”

“Of course. But I will be here with you throughout, and I will take care of you now. You'll never have to worry again. We're going to be brilliant, you'll see. Brilliant.”

She wiped away a tear. Lance smiled through the tears which he felt pricking his own eyes and they sat together, hand in hand, and contemplated their loss.

~~~***~~~ 

Standing in the shadows by the doorway, unnoticed by either of the lovers, Arthur observed.

He listened to Gwen say much the same words he had once said to her father, and his heart beat an unsteady rhythm against his chest. 

Oh Merlin.

They looked so happy there, together, even in their grief. Arthur knew then that Gwen had never really been his to keep: he'd been taking care of her for Merlin's sake, but now she was older, old enough to make her own decisions, and it was time to let go. Gwen was no longer the frightened child he had met in the wood, nor even the stubborn teenager he had fought with for years. She was a woman grown, now, with her own lover to take care of and her own decisions to make. 

Arthur wondered where Uther was. He'd been surprised when the officer had not come to collect him and take him back to his death sentence immediately on the first day after the battle on the barricade. Perhaps he had been waylaid or injured in the battle – Arthur knew him too well after forty years to even think that he might perhaps have given up on his quest to bring Arthur to “justice”.

He limped out of the room, quietly, wincing a little at the pain in his leg where Uther had stabbed him. Arthur went to his study and poured himself a brandy, before collapsing in the armchair in front of the fire. He stretched out the injured leg, breathing through the pain. The infection was probably setting in now, he could tell. There'd only been enough medicine in the house to treat one wound, and after the journey through the sewers, Arthur was taking no chances with Lancelot.

Not when Gwen needed him so. 

He could feel himself growing weaker, day by day. But that was all right. He had already written a will, transferring the manor and all his belongings to Gwen. Once Lancelot was fully recovered, up and around, he'd take the second carriage and go on a long journey. Perhaps he'd finally go back to the small town of Ostia. He'd like to die by the sea, in the same town that Merlin had. 

Yes, he'd go to Ostia. That was a good plan.

~~~***~~~

Two months passed. 

Lance was up and about now, just about, walking with a cane. He'd decided to take a stroll in the gardens while Gwen was out at the dressmakers. She was buying her wedding dress - that thought still made him smile, every time.

In six weeks time, he'd be tied to Gwen for the rest of his life – they'd be married, and forever could really start for them. 

He couldn't wait.

He was just rounding the corner of the garden to the stables, when he saw Arthur. He was just attaching saddlebags to Hengroen, his favourite bay mare.

“What on Earth are you doing?” Lance asked.

He saw Arthur's cringe at the question. The older man turned, leaning hard on his own cane. Lance had noted that he'd been relying on it more and more in recent weeks. 

“Yes, Lancelot?”

“Why are you packing the horse? Where are you going?” He knew that it was probably rude to keep asking the questions so bluntly like this, but he was just so gobsmacked. Where could Arthur be going with saddlebags so full? He looked like he'd packed enough for a month long trip – but they were getting married in six weeks!

“Arthur?”

“Look, Lancelot. I have to leave. I have a criminal history – as soon as the papers cover your wedding, they'll pick up on it. And they will cover the wedding: you're from one of the richest families in Albion, and now that I've passed on all my property to Gwen she's not exactly poor either. It's a history she knows nothing about, and I don't want it to cast a pall over your first days of marriage. I love you both too much for that.”

“But Arthur, I'm sure Gwen wouldn't want this. Wouldn't want you to leave without at least saying goodbye.”

Arthur sighed as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “I've never been very good at goodbyes – and besides, if I even tried to say one, she'd do her best to make me stay, and my Gwen's always been rather forceful. Good luck with that when you're married, by the way.” 

He rummaged in his inside pocket and pulled out a note. “Look, give this to her for me please. I was going to post it from the next town, once I'd gone. But you, take it. I've written it down, written my story for her. But I need to get away before it becomes public knowledge.”

“Arthur -”

The blond man held up a hand. “It's my decision to make, Lancelot, and I've made it. You're enough for her now. I'm going.”

He climbed up on to the horse – Lance saw him wince as his bad leg hit the stirrup – and pulled the reins to wheel her around. “Goodbye, Lancelot.”

Lance watched the figure head towards the edge of the estate. Just as it was about to get there to the wrought iron gates, he watched in horror as the horse came to a stop, and Arthur toppled off its back to the floor.

Lance raced towards the fallen figure as fast as he could, despite his own injury, all the while yelling for the servants from the house. When he got there, Arthur was lying in the dust, clutching his leg. For some unfathomable reason, he was laughing.

“Should have known...” he wheezed. “Always... when I go on a long journey.... someone... bloody... dies....”

“He's delirious!” Lance yelled to the hassled looking servant who'd heard his shouts. “Get him up to the house, now!”

~~~***~~~

Arthur could hear his daughter's voice through the door. He wanted to laugh, but he had a feeling it would hurt too much. He settled for a small smile instead. 

“She's really not... as quiet and polite as she thinks she is,” he said slowly to Lancelot, who was sitting in the armchair opposite him.

“What the fuck do you mean that you can't do anything?” her shrill voice echoed once more through the door. “It's too late? What the fuck does that mean?”

“No, she's not,” Lancelot replied ruefully.

“Who's 'she'?” Gwen was back. She crossed the room to sit on the floor beside Arthur's chair and took his hand in hers. He smiled at her.

“You are, dear. You seem to be...” he took a deep breath – each one was becoming more and more difficult, more and more painful. “...having difficulty accepting the fact... that I'm... going now.”

Gwen shook her head. “No, Father. You're not going. I won't let you!”

He laughed, the motion causing his chest to seize painfully and turning it into a cough. “Oh Gwen. You can't... forbid me to die. You know I strive... to give you everything... but not that. It's time.”

He stroked her hair softly as she cried. Lancelot got up and held her, too. Arthur leaned his head back on the chair. He was so tired. But this, this was the way he wanted to go, surrounded by the people he loved.

Just as his eyes blinked shut, Arthur caught a figure out of the corner of his eye. 

“Merlin?” he said.

Those bright blue eyes, brighter than they'd ever been in life, looked back at him. “Arthur.”

Arthur smiled. “You're here. You're here for me at last. You waited for me.”

“Of course I'm here. You didn't think I was going anywhere without you, did you? I've been watching over you this whole time. You've been amazing with Gwen.”

“I took care of her for you, Merlin. I love you.”

“She's amazing, Arthur. You did really, really well, but it's all right, you can rest now.”

Merlin held out a hand.

Arthur was vaguely aware of Gwen in his lap, tears wetting her face. He reached out to her. “Don't worry... sweetheart. I'm... I'm going with Merlin... I love him. He'll take care... of me. Love you.”

“I love you too, Father. So very much. Say hello to Daddy for me.”

“Lance has... a letter. From me. For you. It's my story... the story... of a man... who loved both of you... so, so much... Love you.”

He ran his hand through her hair, one last time.

“It's time, Arthur,” Merlin said again. “You've done so well, but now it's time to rest.”

He took a step closer, still holding out his hand. It looked paler even than Arthur remembered, almost luminescent.

Arthur smiled. Then, he reached out and took Merlin's hand.

He closed his eyes.


End file.
